THE  TOWERS  OF  ILIUM 


ETHELYN     LESLIE     HUSTON 


THE  TOWERS 
OF  ILIUM 

BY 

ETHELYN  LESLIE  HUSTON 


Irresponsible  motherhood  is  always  a  sin,  with  or 
without  marriage.  Responsible  motherhood  is  always 
sacred,  with  or  without  marriage.  — ELLEN  KEY. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H. DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO  X 

Out  of  the  storm  your  soul  I  found, 
The  crag  holding  back  the  sea, 

And  close  to  its  crest  I  dared  to  rest 
A  moment,  thankfully. 


213S025 


They  were  lonely!  With  sardonic 
humor  Destiny  herded  them  together 
in  one  million,  two,  three — swarming 
in  soul-stifling  confusion.  And  out  of 
that  fearful,  struggling  mass  there 
steadily  boiled  the  green  froth  of  crime 
bred  of  loneliness! 

Page  407 


THE  TOWERS   OF   ILIUM 


•  CHAPTER  ONE 

AS  the  straw  of  immemorial  times  has  always  indicated 
where  blows  the  wind,  so  incidents  of  seeming 
trivial  importance  in  the  life  of  a  child  have  often  in 
them  coming  history  writ  large  for  those  who  have 
eyes  and  can  see. 

It  was  therefore  a  significant  occasion  when  a  thor- 
oughly estimable  young  Sunday  School  teacher  under- 
took, upon  a  certain  mild  and  peaceful  Sabbath,  to 
impress  upon  her  class  in  general,  and  upon  little  June 
Ferriss  in  particular,  the  meaning  and  importance  of 
infant  baptism. 

Until  that  particular  Sabbath,  the  Sabbaths  known 
to  June  were  indicative  of  new  shoes  and  clothes.  Sun- 
day School  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  place  where  little 
boys  and  girls  with  exceptionally  clean  faces  appeared 
in  an  ever-fascinating  round  of  these  delightful  articles 
of  wear.  Of  course  there  were  estimable  young  women, 
and  also  young  men,  who  explained  things  from  the 
Bible  and  who  gave  them  estimable  little  books  for 
Christmas  presents.  But  the  Bible  explanations  savoured 
rather  strongly  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen's  tales, 
without  being  as  interesting,  while  the  little  books  were 
always  about  good  little  girls  and  boys  whom  they 
never  seemed  to  meet  in  their  own  schools,  so  the  little 
books  were  not  interesting  at  all.  Also  the  very  good 
little  girls  and  boys  frequently  died  young,  promising  to 

7 


8  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

meet  their  weeping  relations  in  Heaven  and  quoting  a 
verse  from  a  favourite  hymn.  And  somehow  this  sad 
and  beautiful  fate  never  seemed  to  appeal  to  the  mem- 
bers of  that  particular  Sunday  School  that  little  June 
Ferriss  attended. 

So,  in  consequence  of  all  this,  as  already  related,  the 
new  shoes  and  clothes  carried  the  glory  and  greatness 
of  the  Seventh  day,  with  no  complexities,  theological  nor 
fictional,  to  mar  the  recurrent  excitement  and  pleasure 
they  gave. 

On  the  Sabbath  that  witnessed  the  blowing  of  the 
first  significant  straw,  where  June's  attitude  toward  life 
was  concerned,  that  young  person  sat  sideways  on  a 
low  bench,  facing  her  teacher,  but  with  eyes  absently 
fixed  on  the  two  trim  bows  that  tied  the  two  trim  pig- 
tails of  the  little  girl  who  sat  next  to  her.  In  those 
days  the  low  benches  for  each  class  were  arranged  in  a 
hollow  square,  which  the  teacher  faced  from  one  side, 
and  the  pupils  on  the  right  and  left  sat  with  heads  re- 
spectfully turned  at  attention,  if  with  thoughts  that 
were  prone  to  wander  among  matters  of  earthly  vanities. 

June's  thoughts  were  on  the  colour  of  the  trim  bows, 
which  was  cherry  and  therefore  ravishing.  Her  own 
bows  were  pink,  and  she  had  considered  them  completely 
soul-satisfying  till  the  warmth  of  the  cherry  ribbon 
crossed  her  line  of  vision  as  the  class  finished  the  open- 
ing hymn  and  sat  down  on  their  little  benches  for  the 
lesson.  Rose-pink  or  cherry  colour!  June's  universe 
rocked  dizzily  while  the  pleasant  monotone  of  the  young 
teacher  rippled  along  in  an  undisturbing  obbligato. 
Cherry  colour?  June  pictured  it  on  her  own  dark  brown 
curls — warm — glowing • 

"So  you  must  remember,  children,"  she  subconsciously 
was  aware  that  the  obbligato  was  saying,  "that  baptism 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  9 

is  necessary,  and  that  if  a  little  baby  dies  without  being 
baptised,  it  cannot  go  to  Heaven.  Isn't  that  sad?  And 
that  is  why " 

The  obligate  trailed  back  into  its  undisturbing  mur- 
mur while  the  cherry  ribbons  blurred  and  cleared  and 
blurred  again.  Little  babies?  Very  little  babies  even! 
Unbaptised — the  gates  of  pearl,  and  the  nice  little 
chubby  angels  like  those  on  the  baptismal  font,  and  the 
vague  but  authentic  wonders  of  the  Heavenly  Kingdom 
— all  denied  them! 

June's  gaze  wrenched  itself  from  the  cherry-coloured 
bows  to  the  mildly  solemn  face  of  the  earnest  young 
obligate,  and  she  found  voice. 

"Teacher — you  mean  if  a  little  baby's  mamma  and 
papa  do  not  get  it  baptised,  and  it  dies,  and  just  because 
they  don't,  it  cannot  go  to  Heaven?"  she  asked  halt- 
ingly. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  I  mean,"  said  the  obligate  in  great 
sorrow. 

June's  eyes,  dark,  wide,  plunged  into  the  teacher's 
eyes  the  probe  of  questioning,  new-born,  white-hot, 
keenly  sensitive  as  the  needle  that  quivers  and  gropes 
through  storm-currents  for  the  far  magnetic  call  of 
its  star.  "Yes,  that  is  what  I  mean" — out  of  the  run- 
ning obligate  her  question  had  struck  this  reply,  words 
that  dripped  on  her  waking  consciousness  as  an  acid 
that  blisters  and  stains  and  poisons — Little  babies — very 
little  babies  even — and  all  because  some  grown  people 
neglected ! 

June  started  as  the  acid  reached  its  point  of  fire  to 
her  soul.  Her  Sunday  Lesson  Leaf  slipped  from  her 
fingers  to  the  floor  as  she  crushed  forward  to  stare 
beyond  the  cherry  bows  at  the  Sunday  School  teacher. 

Her  world  rocked  sickeningly  as  the  infallibility  of 


io  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

grown-ups  swayed  back  and  forth  in  unseemly  fashion, 
a  horrid  and  unthinkable  thing.  Then  her  mouth  went 
dry  and  gritty,  and  with  lips  that  twitched  with  the 
surprise  of  it,  with  voice  hoarse  and  unchildlike,  June 
made  answer — "I  don't  believe  it!" 


CHAPTER  TWO 

SOMEWHAT  earlier  in  the  life  of  June  that  young 
person  had  arisen  one  morning  in  a  rather  fractious 
mood  and  things  generally  seemed  to  go  wrong.  Sitting 
on  the  floor  where  she  was  changing  her  small  slippers 
for  shoes,  June  sputtered  impatiently  over  a  refractory 
lace. 

"Dear  me,  June,"  Mrs.  Ferriss  said  reprovingly.  "You 
must  have  left  your  bed  wrong  foot  first  this  morning, 
you  are  so  cross.  What  makes  you  so  naughty?" 

"Oh,  of  torse  Fse  naughty!"  retorted  Miss  June,  tug- 
ging at  a  lace  viciously.  "When  chilluns  is  tross,  dey'se 
naughty.  But  when  drown  folks  is  tross,  it's  nerveses!" 

The  withering  emphasis  of  this  statement  left  Mrs. 
Perriss  speechless  and  June  bitterly  mistress  of  the  situ- 
ation. There  was  no  room  for  argument.  Nerveses? 
Like  the  mantling  cloak  of  charity,  what  sins  of  com- 
mission and  omission  have  they  not  covered!  Nerves 
and  naughtiness — between  them,  who  dares  place  the  line 
of  demarcation? 

And  June,  it  will  be  seen,  analysed.  She  declined  to 
merely  accept.  Which  gave  evidence  to  those  who  had 
ears  and  could  hear  that  June's  pathway  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave  would  be  interesting.  Those  who  do  not 
analyse,  drift,  and  they  are  the  philosophers.  But  they 
do  not  make  history.  They  just  fill  in  the  background. 

James  Ferriss  married  Dolly  Morton  when  he  was 
twenty-four  and  she  eighteen.  She  was  very  pretty, 
with  eyes  and  lips  that  laughed  easily,  and  that  is  about 


ii 


12  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

all  that  twenty-four  requires  of  its  bride.  Thirty-four 
found  James  Ferriss  with  a  comfortable  law  practice 
and  a  growing  library.  Mrs.  Ferriss  at  twenty-eight 
had  achieved  maturity  without  character,  and  the  law 
practice  represented  to  her  merely  the  source  of  the 
wherewithal  for  household  bills,  while  the  library  repre- 
sented nothing  at  all. 

June  was  the  only  child  and  was  an  observant  young 
person  who  was  able  to  express  herself  freely,  but  who 
did  not  always  express  herself  fully.  Like  most  chil- 
dren, she  was  acutely  sensitive  to  the  condition  of  the 
home  atmosphere.  This  is  something  grown  people  for- 
get, and  they  spell  out  words  mysteriously  to  each  other, 
ostrich-fashion,  believing  that  the  meaning  is  quite  care- 
fully hidden,  while  all  the  time  the  small  pitcher  has  no 
need  of  ears — her  eyes  and  heart  and  nerves  are  brand- 
ing their  impression  with  little  hot  needles  on  her 
memory. 

And  June's  hyper-sensitive  mind  was  recording  faith- 
fully and  steadily  the  strange  and  complex  manners  of 
grown  folks.  In  the  first  place,  the  father  whom  she 
regarded  as  all  wisdom  and  knowledge,  and  whom  she 
loved  with  all  of  her  fast-deepening  mind  as  well  as 
heart,  had  a  fashion  of  retreating  into  himself  and  a 
book  with  lips  sternly  set,  while  Mrs.  Ferriss  busied 
herself  with  the  affairs  of  her  household  with  a  steely 
glint  in  her  eye  and  an  acrid  note  in  the  laugh  that  had 
once  rung  musically  in  her  husband's  ears. 

These  barometric  conditions  June  responded  to  with 
the  fidelity  of  the  little  quivering  needle  of  the  com- 
pass— whirling  affrightedly  as  the  air  became  electrically 
surcharged,  but  held  upon  the  pivot  known  and  rever- 
enced as  the  sacredness  of  the  home. 

In  the  presence  of  the  child  James  Ferriss  and  his 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  13 

wife  never  descended  to  the  vulgarity  of  a  quarrel. 
Both  believed  that  the  outward  courtesies  carefully  ob- 
served, the  allusions  elaborately  veiled,  passed  with  their 
daughter  unquestioned.  That  her  ear  detected  the  hol- 
low ring  of  spurious  coin  and  that  her  soul  shrank 
from  a  discordance  that  bewildered  and  hurt  never  oc- 
curred to  them. 

But  if  she  made  no  sign  that  she  was  observant,  the 
eternal  query  that  stretches  over  all  life  laid  hold  upon 
her  but  the  more  tenaciously.  Like  Ferriss  himself, 
she  retreated  into  herself  and  questioned  and  wrestled 
mightily  with  the  problems  that  unfolded  grimly  before 
her  fascinated  vision.  Her  father  was  all  wisdom,  but 
he  was  not  happy.  So  then  even  wise  people  were  not 
able  to  find  happiness.  Her  mother  was  very  good, 
because  she  went  to  church  and  kept  the  commandments 
and  severely  criticised  other  women  who  were  prone  to 
be  light-minded  and  frivolous  and  less  heedful  of  the 
weekday  convenances  and  Sunday  ceremonials.  But 
she  was  not  happy,  either,  so  even  good  people  did  not 
find  happiness. 

What,  then,  would  give  happiness? 

She  asked  the  minister  once  when  she  was  visiting 
her  grandparents  and  he  was  invited  to  Sunday  dinner. 

"What  do  people  do  to  be  happy?"  he  said  in  reply 
to  her  question.  "Why,  if  you  are  good  and  do  unto 
others  as  you  would  they  would  do  unto  you — that  will 
make  you  happy." 

Then  after  dinner  her  playmate  called  for  her  to  go 
for  a  walk  because  it  was  a  glorious  spring  day  and 
they  could  gather  pussy-willows  and  talk  about  what 
they  would  do  and  wear  on  Commencement  Day  and 
exchange  those  delightful  girl-confidences  that  are  so 


14  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

thrillingly  and  absorbingly  interesting  to  chums  of  all 
ages.  But  her  mother  stopped  her. 

"We  are  going  for  a  drive  and  you  may.  go  with  us," 
she  said. 

So  the  chum  went  to  call  for  another  little  girl  and 
June  got  her  hat  and  light  jacket  and  went  down  to 
the  carriage  block  to  wait  for  Bess  and  Dandy  to  dance 
up  with  their  jingling  harness.  And  when  they  came, 
she  fed  them  clumps  of  tender  young  grass  while  some 
of  the  grown  folks  settled  themselves  in  the  surrey  and 
exchanged  pleasant  banter  with  the  others  grouped  on 
the  lawn  and  veranda. 

Then  as  June  patted  Dandy  and  kissed  Bess  on  her 
soft  nose  and  danced  back  to  the  side  of  the  carriage, 
it  was  discovered  that  there  was  no  room  for  her. 

"It's  too  crowded  for  you,  June,"  her  mother  said 
carelessly.  "Wait,  mother,  till  I  fasten  your  veil.  That 
is  better.  Let  us  take  the  lake  road — it  will  be  beautiful 
to-day.  Good-bye,  everybody !  Have  tea  at  five-thirty — 
we  will  be  hungry  after  driving.  Good-bye!" 

Gay  good-byes  were  exchanged  and  the  party  drove 
away,  leaving  a  fluffy  cloud  of  dust  drifting  and  glint- 
ing in  the  sunshine.  The  old  grandfather  and  maiden 
aunt  on  the  veranda  turned  to  go  upstairs  for  a  peaceful 
Sabbath  nap.  Stillness — the  appalling,  endless  stillness 
of  a  sleeping  house  and  long  Sunday  afternoon  hung 
like  a  pall  over  the  child  coming  slowly  back  up  the 
broad  veranda  steps. 

Her  chum  was  gone — it  was  too  late  to  follow  her. 
And  the  house  party  had  gone,  laughing  and  indifferent, 
after  spoiling  her  day,  and  had  left  her  alone.  And  the 
long,  long  afternoon,  with  its  sleepy  drone  of  bees  and 
lazy  twitter  of  birds,  stretched  out  before  her  in  the 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  15 

exaggerated  perspective  of  youth  which  sees  no  horizon 
anywhere. 

Something  rose  in  her  throat  choking  her,  and  a  hot 
sting  of  tears  in  her  eyes  blurred  the  gay  sunshine  that 
mocked  her.  But  the  little  life  of  self-discipline  had 
already  schooled  her  in  keeping  her  hurts  to  herself,  and 
she  pressed  her  twitching  lips  hard  together  as  she  tried 
to  slip  past  the  sharp  eyes  of  her  elders.  Aunt  Fanny, 
however,  correct  and  active  in  good  works,  saw  an 
opening  to  plant  seed  and  said  reprovingly: 

"Little  girls  shouldn't  be  sulky — grown  people  know 
what  is  best  and  children  should  be  obedient  and  cheer- 
ful." 

Obedient  and  cheerful!  June  darted  past  the  hard, 
sharp  eyes,  down  through  the  old-fashioned  halls  to 
the  back  stairway,  up  two  flights  to  a  landing  where  the 
stairs  led  to  the  attic,  and  then  she  crouched  at  a  low 
window  whose  broad  sill  was  almost  level  with  the 
floor. 

On  her  occasional  visits  to  her  mother's  people  this 
was  her  favorite  retreat.  In  the  attic  were  boxes  of 
magazines,  Bow  Bells  and  Godey's  and  other  periodicals 
found  in  polite  and  conservative  homes.  And  June,  re- 
garded as  odd  and  a  little  alarming  by  her  aunt  and 
grandparents,  was  always  glad  to  get  away  from  the 
handkerchief-hemming  and  lace-crocheting  that  they 
considered  proper  occupation  and  relaxation  for  young 
fingers  and  minds,  and  to  curl  up  on  the  window  ledge 
with  an  armful  of  yellowing  books  over  which  she 
dreamed  contentedly. 

From  the  stilted  and  artificial  stories  her  thoughts 
would  sometimes  wander  to  the  lives  and  problems 
around  her  that  somehow  seemed  so  much  more  sharply 
etched  against  the  background  of  daily  life  than  the 


16  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

mildly  interesting  things  in  the  stories.  The  story 
heroines  faded  pathetically  away  into  early  graves,  un- 
less they  lived  to  wander  sadly  in  lonely  gardens  at 
dusk,  and  to  pray  to  the  stars  with  pearly  tears  stream- 
ing from  their  eyes. 

But  around  her  June  did  not  see  these  people  so  fa- 
miliar in  fiction,  and  so  her  gaze  very  often  wandered  in 
puzzled  fashion  to  the  waving  tops  of  the  maple  trees 
that  swept  softly  against  the  window  ledge  where  she 
crouched.  And  over  the  trees  to  the  drifting  banks  of 
clouds  massing  in  wonderful  fairy  palaces  against  the 
blue  sky  she  lifted  her  eyes  in  grave  questioning. 

Why  were  grown  people  so  odd  in  their  ways  with 
each  other?  They  were  very  often  unkind  and  very 
often  unjust — as  to-day,  for  instance.  They  had  taken 
from  her  the  little  junketing  with  Kitty  Adams  that  she 
had  looked  forward  to  with  enjoyment,  and  they  seemed 
quite  indifferent  to  the  spoiling  of  her  day.  And  then 
when  she  had  tried  bravely  to  hide  her  disappointment 
and  her  tears,  she  had  been  told  that  "little  girls  must 
not  be  sulky." 

Her  father  would  have  understood,  if  he  had  been 
there — he  always  understood,  and  straightened  out  all 
manner  of  tangled  threads  for  her  in  his  quiet,  clever 
fashion.  But  he  did  not  seem  able  to  do  anything  with 
his  own  tangled  threads,  and  June's  level  brows  drew 
together  in  helpless  puzzlement.  What  was  the  use  of 
being  grown  up  and  able  to  do  wonderful  things  that 
children  could  not  do  if  so  many  things  were  wrong  and 
so  many  people  were  unkind  and  unfair  to  other  people  ? 

To  "do  unto  others" — would  she  spoil  a  day  for  her 
mother  and  leave  her  alone  while  she  drove  gaily  away 
with  a  laughing  group  of  people?  Would  she  reprove 
Aunt  Fanny  for  being  "sulky"  if  she  saw  her  lips 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  17 

quivering  and  tears  fighting  hard  to  brim  over?  And  if 
grown  people  did  not  know  how  to  "do  unto  others" 
and  find  happiness  that  way,  who  would  know  and  tell 
her? 

June  hugged  her  knees  and  watched  a  wild  canary 
teetering  happily  on  a  high,  slender  bough  that  waved  in 
the  wind.  The  small- feathered  fleck  of  gold  dipped  and 
fluttered  among  the  flickering  leaves  and  made  a  dainty, 
vividly  alive  picture  of  joy  and  freedom. 

Very  high  up  against  the  fathomless  blue  a  great  dark 
bird  poised  on  wide,  still  wings,  swaying  how  and  then 
in  indolent  curves,  again  resting  with  motionless  grace 
on  the  unseen  shoulders  of  the  wind. 

Swaying  boughs  and  flower-scented  wind,  great  grey 
eagle,  fleck  of  feathered  gold — the  life  and  joy  of  free 
things  all  there  framed  by  the  low  attic  window,  called 
to  the  girl  groping  in  the  maze  of  human  standards  and 
formulas.  They  were  free,  the  trees  and  the  birds  and 
the  winds.  There  was  no  one  to  say  they  must  go 
or  they  must  stay.  Just  the  voices  of  Life  spoke  in 
their  hearts  and  bid  them  live  and  enjoy.  And  so  they 
danced  and  swayed  in  exultant  rhythm  and  perfect  har- 
mony, though  held  in  unison  only  by  the  joyousness  that 
pulsed  from  sky  to  earth,  from  earth  to  sky. 

The  wind  and  the  eagle — they  were  never  tired.  But 
her  father  was  tired,  always.  The  birds  that  dipped  and 
skimmed  through  the  trees,  the  butterflies  that  hovered 
like  living  flowers  over  the  flowers  of  the  garden — there 
was  nothing  about  these  that  suggested  whatever  it  was 
that  caused  that  acrid  little  laugh  of  her  mother's.  Na- 
ture was  always  beautiful,  even  when  the  storms  swept 
across  the  face  of  the  earth  twisting  the  trees  in  their 
cruel  clutches  and  lashing  the  roses  as  with  whips. 
There  was  something  mighty  and  grand  and  solemn 


i8  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

about  the  storms,  and  they  always  fascinated  June  in 
just  the  same  way  as  the  vibrant  thunder  of  a  great  pipe- 
organ  fascinated  her  when  she  listened  to  it  in  the  dim- 
ness of  a  vaulted  church. 

Storms  were  part  of  Nature  and  belonged  to  natural 
things  that  June  could  trust,  somehow,  even  if  she  could 
not  understand.  But  the  hundred  little  bitternesses  of 
daily  life,  the  shade  that  settled  grimly  upon  her  father's 
lips,  the  sting  that  made  itself  felt  in  some  simple  words 
of  her  mother,  the  cold  criticism  and  curt  condemnation 
by  her  grandparents  and  her  aunt  of  offending  neigh- 
bour or  unsuspecting  friend — these  chafed  and  prickled 
on  her  inner  consciousness  till  the  restless  misery  of  it 
was  as  real  as  the  hair  shirt  of  a  penitent  on  the  protest- 
ing skin. 

And  why  was  it?  Why  were  people  cross  with  other 
people?  If  to  be  wise,  as  her  father  was  wise,  or  to  be 
strict  and  good,  as  her  mother  was  both,  were  the  desired 
things  that  she  was  taught  that  they  were,  then  what 
was  wrong? 

When  company  came  to  the  house  Mr.  Ferriss  would 
seem  to  grow  younger  and  June  would  respond  joyfully 
to  the  spirit  of  the  light-hearted  banter  with  which  he 
made  the  day  or  evening  pass  so  quickly  and  pleasantly 
for  their  guests.  But  there  was  always  a  day  strange 
and  strained  to  follow  that  June  learned  to  dread. 

Her  mother,  smiling  and  attentive  while  the  guests 
were  there,  was  cold  and  queer  after,  with  the  occasional 
stinging  speeches  that  seemed  to  mean  so  much  more 
than  the  mere  spoken  words.  And  June  would  see  the 
light-hearted  man  of  the  night  before  grow  grave  and 
silent  and  old.  If  there  were  ladies  who  were  pretty 
and  interesting  that  came  to  visit  them,  June,  who  loved 
handsome  people  and  quick  wit,  would  hope  fervently 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  19 

that  they  would  come  often  so  that  she  could  admire  and 
study  them,  as  well  as  enjoy  the  laughing  repartee  of 
Mr.  Ferriss  in  answer  to  their  gay  raillery. 

But  they  never  came  more  than  two  or  three  times, 
and  June  kept  her  disappointment  to  herself.  Her 
mother  did  not  like  them,  she  could  see  that,  and  June 
grew  to  understand  that  the  stinging  little  speeches  and 
the  acrid  laugh  represented  that  which  must  be  propiti- 
ated with  gifts  and  sacrifices,  like  the  idols  to  whom 
the  heathen  gave  their  treasures.  And  as  her  father  laid 
his  manhood  in  uncomplaining  silence  on  this  altar,  so 
the  daughter  contributed  her  quota. 

Major  events  in  one's  history  are  rarely  heralded  with 
trumpets.  Destiny  is  not  melodramatic.  She  is  as  subtle 
in  her  methods  as  is  a  Mrs.  Fiske  or  Madame  Janauschek 
or  Madame  Bernhardt.  The  silences  of  these  remark- 
able women  transcend  all  eloquence.  When  the  story 
of  the  drama  twists  the  keys  abruptly  into  tense  expec- 
tancy and  a  gesture  or  a  sigh  must  play  upon  taut  nerves 
with  a  touch  that  means  tragic  perfection  or  bathos,  the 
tenebrae  of  emotion  or  dramatic  disaster — the  artistry 
of  those  players  reaches  with  psychic  carefulness  to  just 
the  muteness,  just  the  stillness,  that  should  give  pause 
before  the  word  that  is  the  keynote,  the  sentence  that 
is  the  crux  of  the  story  itself. 

The  calm  is  pregnant  with  a  something  that  is  com- 
ing, the  peace  is  ominous,  the  immeasurable  fear  of  the 
unknown  broods  over  things  that  cower  and  listen.  And 
across  the  silence,  the  word  that  has  been  waited  for 
cuts  at  last  with  the  hushed,  terrible  vividness  of  heat 
lightning. 

Fright,  clamour  and  chaos — they  are  as  hounds  in  full 
cry,  the  sensations  unleashed  and  possessed  of  hysteria 
and  madness.  But  tragedy  is  still.  It  gathers  the  gamut 


20  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

of  sound  into  a  whisper  and  the  whisper  shivers  down 
to  the  gates  of  doom. 

And  so  it  was  that  on  a  certain  spring  day  that  was 
as  vividly  beautiful  as  a  Turner,  with  that  artist  in  his 
happiest  mood,  June  paused  at  the  edge  of  womanhood 
and  brushed  elbows  with  death. 

Returning  from  a  week-end  with  a  particularly  con- 
genial house-party,  Mr.  Ferriss  was  sending  their  motor 
car  forward  at  a  good  clip  while  the  drearily  familiar 
programme  was  enacted.  The  aftermath  of  all  their  pleas- 
urings  was  no  longer  a  mystery  to  June  Ferriss.  And 
now  she  sat  in  her  corner  of  the  smoothly  gliding  car, 
wishing  in  futile  rebellion  that  she  could  put  her  fingers 
in  her  ears. 

Ferriss  watched  the  road  ahead,  with  its  ever-chang- 
ing vista,  in  silence.  His  wife  discussed  the  women  of 
the  house  party,  his  attitude  toward  them  and  their  atti- 
tude toward  him.  She  weighed  and  dissected,  and  punc- 
tuated the  process  with  the  little  acrid  laugh  that  rasped 
on  the  nerves  of  the  girl  like  a  file.  And  as  the  after- 
noon sky  gathered  into  itself  colourings  and  glories  that 
flooded  the  earth  and  the  trees  and  the  waters  with 
supernatural  beauty,  the  human  comedy  trailed  out  its 
drab  and  wearying  length.  The  irritation  of  its  triviali- 
ties seemed  to  wear  on  the  girl,  forced  to  listen  to  them, 
more  than  ever  before,  and  she  sat  up  with  quick  relief 
as  they  swung  around  a  curve  of  the  street  and  their 
own  home  came  into  view. 

Then  a  deafening  report  struck  her  ear-drums  like  a 
mighty  hammer  and  a  crash  followed,  in  which  earth 
and  sky  swept  together. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

WHEN  June's  eyes  opened  she  saw  the  comforting 
walls  of  her  own  room.  A  strange  young  woman 
in  uniform  came  and  bent  over  her,  holding  a  glass  to 
her  lips.  As  she  drank  the  sweetish-bitter  potion,  her 
wheeling  wits  began  to  steady  and  she  remembered. 

"We  smashed,  didn't  we? — Father — what  of  him? 
And  my  mother?" 

The  nurse  looked  speculatively  into  her  patient's  face. 
She  saw  there  the  charm  and  delicacy  of  youth,  but  she 
saw  also  a  strength  that  youth  does  not  often  have — the 
strength  of  youth  that  has  looked  at  the  facts  of  life 
as  well  as  played  with  the  fancies. 

"Your  father  will  live,  but  he  is  unconscious.  Youc 
mother  is  alive •" 

She  paused  and  June  said,  after  a  minute: 

"My  mother  is  going  to  die,  you  mean?" 

The  trite,  professional  compromise  on  "While  there 
is  life"  rose  mechanically  to  the  lips  of  the  nurse,  but 
the  strangely  steady  eyes  and  quiet  voice  checked  the 
words.  Her  own  steady  nerves  did  homage  to  a  steadi- 
ness she  recognised  fraternally,  and  in  her  tone  was 
grave  respect. 

"She  is  dying — yes." 

She  was  dying  and  the  suspicious  eyes  would  not 
trouble  them  with  their  suspicious  watching  any  more. 
The  thin,  mocking  voice,  the  hard,  light  laugh  with  its 
little  significant  sneer — those  would  be  still  for  always 
and  for  always.  The  surveillance  that  had  kept  step 
like  a  shadow  with  every  step  of  James  Ferriss  for  all 

21 


22  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

the  years  of  his  married  life  would  keep  step  no  longer. 
He  would  be  free  to  go  or  to  come,  and  no  one  would 
question. 

Death  was  but  the  step  across  a  shadowy  threshold, 
the  continuing  of  life  freed  of  the  burden  of  the  flesh. 
That  was  the  only  difference,  so  taught  the  churches. 
Yet  James  Ferriss  would  be  quite  free  to  talk  with 
whom  he  pleased — to  love  and  to  woo  and  to  marry 
if  he  desired.  And  it  would  be  all  quite  all  right  and  no 
one  could  criticise,  much  less  condemn. 

But  for  long  years  his  ordinary  civilities  had  been 
watched  and  his  careless  pleasantries  turned  against  him 
as  sins.  His  every-day  life  was  scrutinised,  and  he  was 
suspected  and  cross-examined  and  judged.  He  was  a 
bond-slave  who  must  give  an  accounting,  a  serf  who 
must  say  "Yay,  yay"  or  "Nay,  nay"  only  when  and  to 
whom  he  was  permitted. 

If  marriage  gave  this  right,  why  should  the  shedding 
of  the  flesh  make  such  a  tremendous  difference?  If 
that  spirit  that  had  judged  him  so  relentlessly  was  to  still 
live,  why  was  its  authority  less  just  because  it  changed 
its  outer  vesture? 

When  June,  assisted  by  the  doctor  and  the  nurse, 
was  taken  into  the  room  where  her  mother  lay,  she  felt 
a  new  sense  of  pity  stir  in  her  breast  for  the  helpless 
woman  on  the  bed.  If  she  knew  she  was  dying,  what 
must  her  thoughts  be?  Did  she  realise  how  she  had 
claimed  him  to  the  exclusion  of  every  one  else?  Was 
she  sorry  for  the  absorption  that  she  had  insisted  upon? 
Was  she  seeing  now  the  futility  of  it? — the  mistake  she 
had  made  and  the  evil  she  had  wrought? 

It  is  said  that  clearness  of  sight  comes  with  the  ap- 
proach of  death,  so  was  it  not  probable  that  the  long, 
miserable  years  were  passing  in  review  before  the 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  23 

dimming  eyes  and  that  they  saw  at  last  the  mockery  of 
her  dominion  whose  fiercest  tyranny  falls  helpless  when 
its  iron  clutch  seeks  to  grasp  the  impalpable,  when  the 
mental  withdraws  into  its  stronghold  to  which  neither 
priest  nor  magistrate  can  give  a  key! 

It  seemed  that  something  of  all  this  must  have  been 
in  the  mind  of  Dora  Ferriss,  for  she  turned  eager  eyes 
on  her  daughter  and  beckoned  to  her  weakly  but  im- 
peratively. 

"I  want  to  see  your  father,  June.  He  is  conscious 
and  they  can  wheel  him  in  on  a  couch.  I  must  see  him — 
I  am  dying  and  I  must  speak  to  him — there  is  something 
I  must  say  to  him — I  must — I  must !" 

June,  ill  and  unnerved,  felt  a  pang  of  remorse  that 
sent  the  hot  tears  welling  to  her  eyes.  It  was  the  woman- 
heart  that  spoke  that  must  have  been  hidden  under  the 
censorious  and  bitter  wife  they  had  known  who  had 
worn  their  patience  so  threadbare.  She  was  repentant, 
poor,  dying  thing! — and  she  could  not  go  out  to  the 
darkness  and  what  lay  beyond  till  she  had  made  her 
peace.  At  all  costs,  this  must  be  granted  her.  And 
June  stretched  out  her  hands  to  the  physician : 

"We  must  take  the  risk — oh,  we  cannot  refuse!" 

Her  voice  broke,  and  the  doctor's  beetling  eyebrows 
lifted,  together  with  his  broad  shoulders.  The  shrug 
was  consent  very  much  under  protest,  and  he  turned 
grimly  to  the  nurse. 

"She  will  have  it  so !    Come  on,  Nurse  Davis." 

June  moved  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and  took  the  im- 
patient hand  in  hers  as  the  others  left  the  room. 

"They  will  bring  him,  mother,"  she  said  gently.  "Be 
patient  and  do  not  try  to  talk.  Save  your  strength  till 
he  comes." 

The  thin,  once  pretty  face  on  the  pillow  was  drawn 


24  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

and  tense.  The  eyes,  ignoring  June,  feverishly  watched 
the  door.  And  an  intense  eagerness  seemed  to  flood 
the  maimed  body  with  new  strength  as  a  couch  bearing 
'the  injured  man  was  wheeled  carefully  through  the 
doorway  and  up  beside  the  bed. 

Mr.  Ferriss,  though  conscious,  was  in  a  condition  of  ex- 
treme weakness,  and  the  nurse  at  a  scowling  glance  from 
the  doctor  held  a  glass  of  stimulant  to  the  white  lips. 
After  a  moment  of  anxious  silence  the  heavy  eyelids 
lifted  and  Mrs.  Ferriss  called  him  sharply. 

The  physician — Dr.  Moore,  who  had  been  in  attend- 
ance on  the  family  for  years — swallowed  an  exclamation, 
then  set  his  lips  grimly  and  strode  to  the  window. 

"James!" 

At  the  second  call  Mr.  Ferriss  turned  his  gaze  slowly 
till  it  met  that  of  his  wife.  June,  leaning  against  the 
foot  of  the  bed  in  an  agony  of  anxiety,  saw  the  dying 
woman  pull  herself  over  on  her  elbows,  where,  half 
supported  by  the  nurse,  she  looked  down  at  her  hus- 
band. 

"They  say  I  am  going  to  die,"  she  said  gaspingly. 
"Jim,  I  want  you  to  say  something — you  must,  or  I  can't 
die  satisfied.  Jim !" 

June,  looking  from  her  mother's  straining  eyes  to  the 
face  of  the  man  on  the  couch,  set  like  a  waxen  mask 
and  shadowed  by  the  wing  of  unconsciousness  that 
hovered  over  him,  clutched  the  foot-board  of  the  bed 
while  a  wordless  prayer  choked  up  from  heart  to  throat. 
That  he  might  answer — that  he  might  only  answer  and 
forgive ! 

"Jim!"  the  difficult,  gasping  voice  grew  hoarse,  sibi- 
lant. •  "Jim ! — promise  me — promise  me  that  you  will 
never  marry  any  other  woman!  Do  you  hear? — Prom- 
ise me — you  must  promise.  I  am  dying,  and  you  can't 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  25 

refuse  a  dying  person.  Promise  that  you  won't !  I  can't 
stay  in  my  grave  if  you  do!  I  will  come  back  and 
haunt  you — I  will!  Promise! — Promise!" 

With  an  inarticulate  cry  of  horror,  June  sprang  for- 
ward and  with  her  two  hands  on  her  mother's  shoulders, 
she  thrust  her  back  and  down  on  the  bed. 

"Be  silent!     Be  silent!" 

It  was  a  choking  whisper,  hoarse,  furious,  and  it 
silenced  the  thin,  clamouring  voice,  and  Mrs.  Ferriss  lay 
still,  panting  horribly.  June  turned  to  the  doctor  and 
nurse  and  motioned  them  to  the  couch. 

"Take  him  away — quick!" 

The  couch  rolled  easily  and  swiftly  out  of  the  room 
as  the  girl  stood  guard  between  it  and  the  bed,  and  as 
the  two  wheeling  it  disappeared,  she  turned  back.  Her 
mother's  mouth  was  open,  the  breath  coming  in  strangled 
puffs  from  her  lips,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  malevo- 
lent glare  on  her  daughter. 

"I  hate  you!  I  hate !"  A  fleck  of  foam  bubbled 

up  to  the  grey  lips,  then  the  jaw  relaxed. 

June  took  a  napkin  from  the  stand  by  the  bed  and 
laid  it  over  the  face,  closing  down  the  eyelids.  Straight- 
ening up,  she  found  Dr.  Moore  beside  her  and  they 
looked  at  each  other  without  speaking. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

pRESENTLY  a  strange  little  smile  twisted  the  girl's 
•*•  lips  as  she  looked  down  at  the  long,  motionless  form 
on  the  bed  and  then  back  at  the  man  standing  grimly 
beside  her. 

"Wifehood  and  motherhood — and  now  death."  With 
a  little  gesture  she  indicated  the  dead  woman.  "We 
hear  a  good  deal  about  the  dignity  of  all  three,  do  we 
not?" 

Her  lips  held  their  smile  and  her  eyes  were  only 
quietly  reflective,  but  the  physician,  watching  keenly  from 
under  the  grizzled  thatch  that  met  across  his  hawk-like 
nose,  brought  his  hand  down  roughly  on  her  shoulder. 

"Damn  it  all,  June,  try  and  forget  this  beastly  busi- 
ness. You  are  young  yet — too  young  by  twenty  years 
to  go  probing  at  the  rotten  skeleton  that  life  is  built 
on.  This  part  of  it  is  over.  Blot  it  out,  girl.  Start 
new,  and  go  back  to  the  garden  and  the  butterflies." 

She  laughed,  and  the  dreary  cadence  of  it  marked  the 
long,  long  way  that  she  had  travelled  from  youth's 
garden  and  its  butterflies.  Go  back?  The  garden  of 
her  youth  had  been  a  very  small  garden,  and  the  butter- 
flies— were  they  butterflies?  or  only  wisps  of  painted 
paper  kept  fluttering  by  the  little  Japanese  fan  of  a 
child's  imaginings! 

Go  back?  What  had  she  to  go  back  to?  How  often 
had  memory  trod  that  painful  way  back  to  babyhood, 
to  then  turn  and  pick  up  the  significant  things  that  she 
had  known  so  well  and  the  more  significant  ones  that  she 
had  never  known! 

26 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  27 

The  little  earlier  griefs  that  appealed  to  indifferent 
ears,  the  childish  errors  that  met  the  sting  of  satire,  the 
blight  of  critical  sarcasm — these  she  remembered  in  a 
blurred  patchwork  of  pain  and  shame  that  had  taught 
her  very  soon  the  wisdom  of  keeping  her  perplexities 
and  sorrows  to  herself. 

And  what  she  had  never  known  was  the  wisely  gentle 
camaraderie,  the  infinite  patience  and  understanding  of 
which  motherhood  is  known  as  the  highest  type. 

"Was  there  ever  a  garden,  I  wonder?"  she  said.  And 
the  voice,  quietly  dispassionate,  fell  with  grave  finality 
across  the  flow  of  generalities  that  the  physician  en- 
deavoured to  make  convincing. 

"But  after  all,  she  was  your  mother,  you  know,"  Dr. 
Moore  had  said  with  a  last  desperate  stand  for  the  house- 
hold altars. 

"She  was  my  mother?  She  gave  me  birth — yes.  But 
what  does  that  prove?  Mother  and  child?  Why,  we 
were  not  even  friends!  She  bore  me,  the  daughter  of 
my  father.  I  have  her  skin,  her  features.  But  that  is 
all.  Beyond  the  mark  of  the  flesh,  we  had  nothing  in 
common.  We  were  strangers." 

She  spoke  without  emotion,  merely  stating  facts  that 
were  evident  with  the  quiet  interest  she  would  give  any 
problem  of  Nature  that  appealed  to  the  analytical  side  of 
her.  And  she  stated,  as  she  knew,  facts  that  were  un- 
controvertible  to  a  man  of  his  profession. 

Motherhood,  fatherhood  and  the  marital  relation,  to 
those  of  his  cloth,  had  few  of  the  embellishments  that 
smothered  the  framework  for  that  great  majority  who 
are  satisfied  with  outward  pomp.  All  life  has  so  much 
of  the  carnival  parade  in  it.  The  decorated  floats  with 
their  symbolic  tableaux  quite  satisfy  eyes  that  are  ac- 
customed to  the  surface  of  things.  That  is  why  the 


28  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

dreams  of  socialist  and  reformer  are  so  impossible  of 
fulfilment.  There  are  always  leaders,  because  there 
are  always  the  few  whose  eyes  are  clear  and  shrewd, 
who  see  at  once  the  power  and  the  weakness  of  their 
fellows  and  who  play  upon  the  latter  and  utilise  the 
former  for  their  own  purpose. 

The  purpose  is  not  always  bad  nor  is  it  always  good. 
But  it  is  a  little  lever  that  is  always  personal,  that 
answers  to  the  command  of  one  brain. 

And  those  of  the  medical  fraternity,  more  than  those 
of  any  other  vocation,  lay  down  their  illusions  very  early 
at  the  foot  of  knowledge.  If  they  see  the  beauty  and 
poetry  of  life,  if  they  see  the  trim  and  respectable  little 
idols  that  are  ranged  on  the  orthodox  altars  that  civilisa- 
tion has  evolved,  they  see  also  the  decay  that  beauty 
masks;  the  raw  tragedy  that  poetry  drapes;  the  priests, 
ordained  and  secular,  from  the  market  place,  who  are 
concealed  back  of  the  altars  and  who  pull  the  wires  and 
speak  through  the  altars'  gods. 

Motherhood,  in  theory  so  divine,  they  knew  to  be 
in  fact  appallingly  complex  and  material.  For  mother- 
hood, that  should  be  the  third  of  the  divine  trinity  when 
linked  with  wifehood  and  fatherhood,  was  but  too  often 
the  physical  fruitage  of  expediency.  Wifehood — too 
often  the  fair  sepulchre  builded  over  dead  hope  and  dead 
desire,  answered  for  so  much !  For  the  one  who  enters 
into  it  with  joy  and  wears  its  glory  as  a  halo,  how  many 
who  use  it  for  the  makeshift — for  the  swarm  of  ignoble 
considerations  that  run  their  bargaining  from  the  penny 
calculations  of  the  weary  and  drab-lived  shop-girl,  to 
the  princely  settlements  of  ducal  houses?  This  they 
call  wifehood — this  legalised  living  together  of  two  be- 
ings, man  and  woman,  who  far  from  being  mated,  one 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  29 

with  the  other,  are  fortunate,  if  tolerance  does  not  sink, 
of  its  own  drear  chain-weight,  to  hate. 

And  of  this  sort  of  union  the  world  bred  its  wanted 
and  unwanted  children.  Of  this  sort  of  union  women 
bore  their  kind — the  offspring  of  soulless  submission  at 
best,  too  often  of  soul-revolt  and  loathing  where  Nature 
battled  in  sick  protest  against  outrage. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

AN  island,  long,  low  and  narrow  and  oddly  like  a 
lizard  in  outline,  lay  in  the  warm  sunlight  as  though 
lazily  resting  on  the  waters  before  the  City.  It  sep- 
arated the  wide  bay  from  the  lake,  forming  a  natural 
harbour,  and  the  great  lake  steamers  swung  in  at  either 
end  through  what  was  called  the  "Eastern  gap"  and  the 
"Western  gap." 

The  irregular  skyline  of  the  City  shone  through  its 
thin,  smoky  haze  and  the  big  squat  ferry  boats  lumbered 
slowly  back  and  forth  between  the  city  piers  and  the 
Island,  bringing  city  folk  for  an  afternoon  in  the  pretty 
Island  Park  and  bringing  the  Islanders  themselves  from 
brief  shopping  trips,  taken  largely  to  enjoy  anew  the 
delight  of  getting  back  again  to  the  Island  quiet  and  its 
brisk,  cool  lake  breezes. 

Some  of  the  lazy  ferry  boats  headed  for  one  end  of 
the  Island,  where  a  big  summer  hotel  presided  proudly, 
if  a  little  blatantly,  over  all  sorts  of  summer  attractions. 
Toy  railroads,  chutes,  refreshment  places  and  sideshows 
radiated  around  the  broad  galleried  hotel,  flags  fluttered 
and  bands  played. 

Beyond  the  immediate  amusement  radius  lay  a  sum- 
mer colony  of  bungalows  and  camps.  Here  lived  the 
summer  Islanders  who  wanted  Nature  generously  sprin- 
kled with  the  paprika  of  the  City.  They  want  the 
strident  shriek  of  the  Carrousel,  the  megaphone  bellow 
of  the  sideshow,  the  blare  of  the  brass  band  and  the 
shouts  and  cries  of  the  bathing  toboggan  slide. 

The  "Point"  where  these  joys  abounded  was  Coney 

30 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  31 

on  a  less  expansive,  but  quite  as  noisy  scale.  And  as 
Manhattan  Beach  holds  itself  in  haughty  seclusion  far 
apart  from  its  loud-voiced  and  over-decorated  neighbour, 
so  the  Island  Park  region  kept  the  barrier  of  a  long  and 
practically  impassable  stretch  of  barren  sand  between  its 
outlying  bungalows  and  cabins  and  the  thickly  clustered, 
linked-elbow  campers  of  the  Point. 

Along  the  far-reaching  lagoons  that  threaded  the  Is- 
land and  that  served  as  its  only  roadways,  the  Park 
folks  occasionally  guided  their  canoes  to  the  hotel  land- 
ing, however,  to  spend  an  evening  hour  on  the  great 
veranda  and  watch  the  throng  on  the  board-walk.  The 
brazen  brass,  the  boom  of  drums,  the  cries  of  souvenir 
hawkers  and  the  warning  whistle  of  crowded  incoming 
and  outgoing  excursion  boats,  merged  with  the  muf- 
fled roar  of  shuffling  feet  and  the  staccato  voices  of 
merrymakers  determined  to  get  full  value  out  of  their 
piece  of  silver. 

With  a  group  of  Park  folk,  June  Ferriss  sat  on  the 
hotel  gallery  watching  the  passing  show  with  amused 
eyes.  Edward  Todhunter,  known  to  his  familiars  as 
Teddy  Tod,  was  imploring  her  tearfully  to  accompany 
him  for  a  ride  on  the  wooden  horses. 

"You  have  no  idea  how  hotty  and  superior  you  feel 
while  you  go  'round  and  'round,"  he  urged.  "Come  on, 
June,  be  a  sport!" 

"Ted  is  simply  mad  over  that  ridiculous  Carrousel," 
exclaimed  pretty  Mrs.  Dick  Hayes.  "I  believe  that  is 
why  he  drags  us  over  here  every  little  while.  We 
always  vow  we  will  never  come  again  after  we  have 
been  mobbed  and  crushed,  but  somehow  he  wheedles 
us  back." 

"Does  he!"  cried  Sam  London  wrathfully.  "We  are 
so  easy  we  just  feed  out  of  his  hand,  that's  all.  Look 


32  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

at  that  bally  procession  of  white  hopes  with  rented  pad- 
dles on  their  shoulders.  And  the  girls  with  ten-inch 
hat  pins  and  near-diamond  barrettes!  Have  we  left 
our  happy  homes  for  this  ?  and  will  some  kind  friend  tell 
us  why?" 

"Cheer  up,  Sam,"  said  Mr.  Todhunter  soothingly. 
"We  know  you  can't  ride  the  horses  because  it  makes 
you  be  sick  in  your  tummy,  but  to  June  and  me  it  brings 
back  fond  memories  of  blue  ribbons  and  the  smell  of  the 
tan-bark.  So  don't  be  selfish,  my  son." 

"Yes,  that  band  sounds  like  Madison  Square!"  cried 
Mrs.  Dick  ironically.  "Don't  humour  him,  June!  And 
a  little  of  this  goes  a  long  way.  I  move  we  adjourn  and 
seek  civilisation  again." 

"And  as  a  punishment  befitting  his  crime,  I  move  we 
go  to  Ted's  camp  and  drink  up  his  root  beer.  I  have 
a  thirstiness  and  the  wet  goods  here  likes  me  not," 
added  her  husband. 

"Surest  thing  you  know !"  put  in  Babe  Blake,  rubicund 
and  the  ever  somnolent,  waking  from  a  nap.  "He  made 
about  four  dozen  bottles  and  I'll  bet  they're  sunk  in  the 
nice  cool  lagoon  this  minute.  Come  on,  fellows!" 

"No,  they're  on  the  roof  of  my  tent,"  said  Teddy 
calmly. 

"They're  on  the—!" 

"Four  doz !" 

"Root  beer  bot P 

"Your  tent!    Why,  what  the^— P 

Teddy  raised  his  arms  in  imitation  of  the  band  mas- 
ter and  called  encouragingly,  "Now,  altogether — ready! 
Because  they  busted — and  blew  up — and  the  roof  of  the 
tent  being  fastened — it  stopped  the  beer — and  the  beer 
stayed  there — but  the  corks  came  back — and  hit  me  on 
the  head." 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  33 

Sinuous  and  smoothly  quiet  as  Indian-manned  craft 
of  birch  the  line  of  canoes,  homeward  bound,  stole 
along  the  lagoons,  leaving  a  glare  of  yellow  light  on  the 
sky  and  a  slowly  dying  medley  of  raucous  sound.  Ahead, 
some  fine  lines  of  electric  lights  were  picked  out  like 
a  delicate  rope  of  brilliants  against  the  ebon-black  of  the 
Park  trees,  but  they  did  not  offend  the  majestic  calm  of 
the  night,  the  mellow  roar  of  the  surf  against  the  beach, 
the  snow-splendour  of  moonlight  that  bathed  waters  and 
sand  and  shrubbery  in  its  exquisite  enchantment. 

The  deft  paddles  slid  through  the  lagoon  surface  with- 
out marring  its  smoothness,  and  only  the  rhythmic  fall 
of  shining  drops  from  the  blade,  like  a  broken  string 
of  beads  swinging  softly  down  on  the  shimmering, 
moonlit  mirror,  sounded  through  the  ineffable  calm  of 
the  night.  Far  across  the  bay  the  City  appeared  like  a 
fairy  city  of  soft-glowing  mystery  against  the  deep 
purple  of  the  sky,  and  home-coming  lake  steamers,  out- 
lined from  bow  to  stern  with  scintillant  incandescents, 
floated  in  panoramic  stillness  across  the  water. 

Somewhere  out  on  the  lake  the  buoy-bell  tolled,  the 
weird,  irregular  sound  of  its  bell  floating  hauntingly  in- 
shore as  it  lifted  and  dipped  on  the  slow  swell  that 
moved  oilily  forward  to  lift  and  curl  and  fall  heavily 
in  a  smother  of  foam  on  the  beach. 

"And  listen !  There  goes  the  mooley-cow !"  said  June, 
raising  herself  on  her  elbow  among  her  cushions,  while 
Mr.  London,  who  paddled,  paused  with  blade  uplifted 
and  turned  his  face  to  the  lake. 

The  canoes  had  reached  the  silence  of  the  Park  and 
the  night  seemed  to  brood  with  softly  dark  pinions  trail- 
ing over  shadowy  sand  and  water,  the  more  restful  be- 
cause of  the  moon-silver  that  touched  everything  with 
its  high-lights  of  tender  glory. 


34  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

But  vague  fear  troubled  the  drowsy  serenity  as  out  of 
the  darkness  that  lay  beyond  the  moon's  path  on  the 
lake,  a  long,  shuddering  cry,  deep-throated  and  an- 
guished, welled  up  and  up  till  it  broke  into  a  strangled 
choke  that  made  the  sudden  silence  that  followed  a  hor- 
rible thing. 

"Calling  to  her  calf,  poor  old  girl,"  said  Mr.  London, 
as  he  lowered  his  paddle  into  the  water  and  then  drew 
it  forward  with  an  easy  twist,  rudderwise,  while  the 
feather-craft  shot  forward  on  a  straight  line.  "There 
must  be  a  fog  coming,  as  the  old  lady  is  airing  her  woes, 
but  there  is  certainly  no  sign  of  one  just  now  on  this 
Isle  of  the  Blest." 

"How  uncanny  she  is — her  warning  travels  out  over 
those  black  waters  as  though  it  was  bugled  through  dead 
men's  bones!" 

June  sank  back  among  the  cushions  with  a  shiver. 
The  silence  was  again  pierced  by  the  clamouring  voice 
of  the  siren,  and  the  closing  choke  filled  the  far  darkness 
with  evil  phantoms. 

"Yep — sounds  like  an  East  Side  hold-up,"  Mr.  Lon- 
don agreed  cheerfully.  "And  it  .doesn't  fit  into  the 
scenario  here,  so  I  don't  approve  of  it.  We  are  a  nice, 
law-abiding  lot  of  Christians  and  that  note  of  battle, 
murder  and  sudden  death  just  doesn't  belong,  that's  all. 
With  all  Edison's  fine  work,  why  doesn't  he  get  busy 
with  the  sirens,  I  wonder?" 

A  sudden  idea  illumined  Mr.  London's  mind  at  this 
juncture  and  he  dropped  his  paddle  across  the  canoe  and 
drifted. 

"Even  if  we  do  go  to  the  happy  hunting  grounds  via 
the  water  route,  we  don't  want  to  be  reminded  of  that 
possibility  every  time  a  bit  of  fog  drifts  across  the  waves. 
And  instead  of  this  unearthly  moan  of  the  mooley-cow 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  35 

like  a  teary  Niobe  of  the  barnyard,  Mr.  Edison  ought 
to  invent  a  record-affair  that  would  carry  over  the  deep. 
Mary  Garden,  now,  in  'Pelleas  et  Melisande' — she  has  a 
nice,  mooley-cow  note  in  her  lower  register  that  would 
be  a  peach.  Each  lighthouse  could  have  its  own  grand 
opera  star,  don't  you  know,  and  see  what  a  classical  edu- 
cation it  would  be  for  pilots !  I  ought  to  patent  that  idea 
and  take  it  up  with  Edison.  It  would  revolutionise 
maritime  affairs.  Even  Little  Italy  in  the  steerage  would 
weep  with  joy  when  it  heard  its  Caruso  bellow  out  from 
Nantucket,  say.  Wonderful  idea!  You  ought  to  be 
hysterical  with  admiration,  June.  And  you're  making 
about  as  much  noise  as  a  Dungeness  crab!"  wound  up 
Mr.  London  indignantly. 

"Well,  you're  making  enough  noise  for  a  whole 
menagerie,"  replied  Miss  Ferriss  placidly.  "And  you've 
out-talked  the  siren.  She  isn't  saying  a  word.  And  if 
you  don't  get  on,  those  devoted  friends  of  ours  ahead 
will  clean  out  Ted's  commissariat  and  not  leave  us  a 
bone.  And  I'm  starved !" 

The  contents  of  the  commissariat  were  spread  out  in 
his  "ancestral  hall"  as  Mr.  Todhunter  called  the  middle 
section  of  his  roomy  tent,  which  was  floored,  partitioned 
and  furnished  with  comforts  and  also  luxuries.  The 
Islanders  believed  in  the  simple  life,  but  did  not  see 
any  logical  reason  why  that  should  include  discomforts 
that  were  avoidable. 

Consequently  tents  as  well  as  cabins  and  bungalows 
were  weather  proof,  as  weather  runs  in  that  part  of  the 
country,  and  were  constructed  to  resist  the  occasional 
gales  that  stirred  up  the  great  lakes  and  made  things 
interesting  for  the  coast  guards. 

Mr.  Todhunter's  ancestral  hall  had  a  broad  couch 
with  many  fat  cushions,  some  open  book-shelves  stuffed 


36  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

with  books  and  magazines,  shaded  electric  lights — for 
the  Island  power-house  supplied  this  comfort  to  its 
family — hickory  arm  chairs  with  gay,  tufted  chintz 
padding,  a  framed  "Mono,  Lisa"  and  a  refrigerator. 

"You  see,  Eliza  gives  a  high-brow  atmosphere  to  the 
ancestral  hall,"  Mr.  Todhunter  explained  to  June  who 
had  promptly  pre-empted  the  couch.  "William  Morris 
says  you  must  eliminate  everything  but  what  is  actually 
a  thing  of  beauty  or  of  utility,  so  I  did  that  same  and 
proceeded  to  centre-stage  the  inscrutable  dame  and  the 
cold-storage  plant." 

"At  that  Eliza  is  no  beauty,"  objected  Mrs.  Dick. 
"She  hasn't  any  eyebrows  or  eyelashes  and  looks  like  my 
cook." 

"Well,  me  for  Mona,"  said  Babe  Blake  sleepily.  "She 
hangs  over  the  commissariat  with  her  cool  smile  that 
helps  the  ice  stay  put  till  we  get  home.  And  she  is  a 
nice  discreet  party— don't  catch  her  telling  all  she  knows 
to  her  bosom  friend !  Gimme  a  sandwich,  Sam." 

"Why,  I  gave  you  one,"  exclaimed  Mr.  London,  who 
was  busy  at  the  table  with  carving  knife,  bread,  ham  and 
mustard. 

"Well,  I  want  more,"  aggrievedly  returned  Mr.  Blake. 
"If  you'd  put  less  art  and  more  doins  in  your  sandwiches 
I  would  fill  up  quicker.  Sandwiches  come  in  the  utility 
class,  anyhow.  They  don't  have  to  look  like  a  Japanese 
miniature  landscape  on  parchment  to  Fletcherize  well. 
Gimme  some  Bock,  Dick." 

"Well,  for  the  love  of  Pete!  Get  up  and  help  carve 
the  Bock,  if  you're  so  thirsty.  I  had  to  fish  'em  out  of 
the  lagoon  while  you  and  June  grabbed  all  the  cushions 
over  there  and  took  it  easy,"  Mr.  Hayes  said  irately. 

"June  grabbed  two  more  than  me,"  said  Mr.  Blake 
virtuously.  "And  the  doctor  says  I  must  not  over-ex- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  37 

ercise  in  hot  weather.     My — er — my  heart  is  affected." 

"Yes,  I  know — the  affection  sells  peanuts  and  pop- 
corn on  the  City  dock  and  her  front  name  is  Pepita," 
grinned  Mr.  London. 

"Well,  any  girl  that  can  keep  Babe  awake  long  enough 
to  reach  a  heart  buried  in  two  hundred  pounds  of  ung- 
bung-pung,  is  a  dandy,"  remarked  Mr.  London. 

"Have  a  sandwich,  Babe,  and  don't  pay  any  attention 
to  them,"  said  June  soothingly.  "They  are  only  jealous 
because  you  are  better  looking  than  they  are." 

"I  like  June,"  sighed  Mr.  Blake.  "I  like  June  very- 
much.  She  is  a  perfect  lady.  She  has  been  properly 
brought  up.  She  doesn't  bawl  to  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood about  a  person  having  'another'  sandwich.  She 
says,  with  proper  delicacy,  have  'a'  sandwich.  June  has 
a  soul.  You  people  are  all  right  as  far  as  you  go — 
you  mean  well,"  Mr.  Blake  conceded  generously,  "but 
June  and  I  are  in  a  class  by  ourselves.  We  are  sensitive 
to  the  harmonies  of  the  universe — we  are  psychic.  June, 
will  you  marry  me?" 

"Yes,  indeedy — anything  to  be  obliging,"  said  Miss 
Ferriss  cheerfully,  dabbling  some  mustard  on  a  morsel 
of  bread  and  reaching  for  an  olive. 

"She  can't— I  asked  her  first,"  objected  Mr.  Tod- 
hunter,  who  was  on  his  knees  peering  anxiously  into 
the  refrigerator.  "Sam,  where  did  you  put  the  anchovy? 
Oh,  Lord !  It's  in  the  dish  of  strawberry  jam.  How 
can  a  man  be  a  Christian  with  anchovy  mixed  up  with 
jam!  I  did,  too,  Infant!  You  were  asleep  on  the  beach 
and  June  and  I  were  out  on  the  diving  float." 

"M-hm.  He  did.  I  had  forgotten,"  murmured  Miss 
Ferriss.  "You  see,  I  like  them  both,"  she  waved  the 
olive  with  a  comprehensive  sweep.  "But  I  suppose  I 


38  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

couldn't  marry  them  both,  could  I  ?"  She  appealed,  with 
eyes  mournfully  limpid,  to  the  company. 

"Well,  it  isn't  exactly  customary  in  our  set,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Dick.  "At  least,  not  two  at  a  time.  But  you  could 
make  a  note  of  it,  June  child.  Keep  one  of  them  on  your 
waiting  list,  don't  you  know." 

"Oh,  you  don't  say !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hayes,  regarding 
his  wife  with  gloomy  suspicion  through  the  smoke  of 
his  cigar.  "By  that  same  token,  was  that  your  waiting 
list  you  were  poring  over  in  your  writing  case  down  by 
the  sad  sea  waves  this  morning?" 

"No,  my  darling — that  was  the  laundry  list,"  said 
Mrs.  Hayes  with  a  sigh.  "And  in  these  days  of  care- 
less laundries,  and  servantless  homes,  a  poor  woman  has 
not  much  time  to  keep  her  sentimental  affairs  checked 
up.  Such  a  nice  man  over  from  the  City — guest  of  the 
Stanleys,  June — the  man  with  the  nose,  you  know — 
he  danced  with  me  at  the  Wednesday  night  hop  and 
after  we  strolled  out  on  the  gallery  in  the  moonlight 
and  he  was  saying  something  so  delicately  touching  about 
the  wistful  look  in  my  eyes,  and  I  was  beginning  to 
think  perhaps  Dick  didn't  really  appreciate  me,  after  all. 
And  then  I  suddenly  remembered  that  we  were  out  of 
coffee  and  the  little  store  on  the  board-walk  closed  at 
half  past  nine.  And  if  I  don't  have  my  coffee  at  break- 
fast, life  isn't  worth  living.  So  I  just  had  to  leave  the 
poor  man  and  grab  Teddy  and  we  sprinted  and  just  made 
it,  didn't  we,  Ted?" 

"And  you  still  owe  me  the  forty  cents,"  her  host 
reminded  her  firmly. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

YOO-HOO !  Yoo-hoo !" 
June  Ferriss  stirred,   rubbed  her  eyes  sleepily 
then  quickly  sat  up  in  bed. 

"Yoo-hoo!" 

A  shower  of  pebbles  flew  past  the  French  doors, 
braced  back  to  admit  the  full  sweep  of  the  lake  wind, 
and  fell  with  a  rattle  on  the  floor. 

"Yoo-hoo!  Oh,  you  June  child!"  chanted  a  chorus 
down  on  the  lawn  and  the  June  child  hastily  wrapped  a 
kimono  around  her  and  stepped  through  the  open  door- 
way out  on  the  veranda.  Her  hair  lifted  and  billowed 
out  like  a  flag  of  brown  silk  as  the  brisk  breeze  caught 
it  and  she  leaned  over  the  railing  and  shook  a  small  fist 
at  the  bath-robed  and  rain-coated  group  below. 

"Will  you  stop  your  noise !"  she  hissed.  "You'll  wake 
the  dad  and  I  want  him  to  sleep.  For  mercy  sake,  give 
me  two  minutes  to  get  into  my  suit.  I'm  not  deaf  nor 
dead,"  she  wound  up  wrath  fully. 

"  'She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth/  "  quoted  Mr.  Tod- 
hunter  sepulchrally.  "Oh,  fairest  Juliet!"  Juliet  re- 
appeared on  the  lower  veranda,  sat  down  on  the  steps 
and  thrust  out  her  feet  to  have  her  sandals  tied  by  two 
kneeling  swains  while  she  coiled  her  hair  into  a  big 
soft  knot  and  stuffed  it  into  a  bathing  cap. 

"Pinkly  dewy  as  a  peach  blossom!"  commented  Mrs. 
Dick  Hayes  as  she  looked  down  at  her  with  frank  envy. 
"It  takes  me  twenty  minutes  to  get  the  sleep  massaged 
out  of  my  face  and  you  look  as  dimpling  and  rosy  as  a 
baby  that  has  just  finished  its  nap.  It  really  isn't  decent, 

39 


40  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

June  Ferriss,  to  tumble  out  of  bed  looking  like  a  Greuze 
picture.  You  ought  to  be  suppressed  as  a  nuisance." 

The  pretty  matron,  who  was  just  fifteen  pounds  over- 
weight and  knew  it  to  the  full  bitter  ounce,  sighed  as 
she  pulled  her  Turkish  towelling  robe  tighter  around 
her  and  smothered  a  yawn  with  one  shapely  tanned  hand. 

June  sprang  lightly  to  her  feet  and  laughed. 

"Why,  you  look  like  the  queen  of  Sheba  in  that 
gorgeous  scarlet  and  white  robe,  Nancy,"  she  cried. 

Gay  shouts  from  the  rest  of  the  Island  colony,  half 
obscured  in  the  surf,  greeted  the  "Clandeboye  Ave." 
group.  The  "Avenue"  ran  across  the  Island  from  lake 
to  bay,  a  lazy  lagoon  serving  as  roadway.  The  "Long 
Pond"  was  about  midway  and  the  spacious  club  house 
with  its  ball-room  and  wide  double-decker  galleries  faced 
the  pond,  where  the  aquatic  sports  and  contests  were 
held. 

Several  "avenues"  crossed  the  Island,  their  bungalows 
having  each  its  boat-house  facing  the  lagoon.  But  the 
lake  shore  had  the  longest  line  of  island  homes.  Every 
day  from  early  spring  to  late  fall,  the  entire  colony  went 
in  for  its  early  morning  "dip,"  and  the  beach  was  already 
decorated  with  discarded  Turkish  robes  and  cloaks  of  all 
colours. 

June,  Mrs.  Dick  and  "the  boys"  added  theirs  to  the 
collection  and  dog-trotted  into  the  tossing  foam  of  the 
surf,  which  was  running  high.  All  were  good  swim- 
mers, and  passing  the  more  frivolous  who  were  "duck- 
ing" the  rollers  and  doing  calisthenics  around  the  life- 
lines, they  were  soon  among  the  other  heads  pressing 
steadily  across  the  great  swells  that  moved  grandly  in 
from  the  lake. 

The  sun,  newly  risen,  sent  its  early  radiance  in  tem- 
pered warmth  across  the  water  and  the  pearl  tints  of  the 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  41 

dawn  were  deepening  into  a  rainbow  flush  of  rose  and 
daffodil  that  swept  around  the  horizon  line,  where  the 
dove  greys  and  greens  of  the  water  met  the  fathomless 
'blue  of  the  sky. 

June,  carried  well  out  by  her  easy,  over-head  stroke, 
gave  a  lithe  twist  to  her  slender  young  body  and  rested, 
floating  on  the  water.  The  cool  breeze  played  across 
her  wet  lips  and  flushed  cheeks ;  the  inshore  drive  of  the 
waves  lifted  her  relaxed  limbs  to  the  crest  of  the  swell 
and  slid  her  gently  down  into  the  darkly  green  gulf  of 
waters,  only  to  pick  her  up,  as  though  its  toy,  and  carry 
her  again  to  the  light  and  brilliancy  of  the  next  billow. 

London's  dark,  wet  head  and  tanned  face — Teddy 
Tod's  wide  grin — the  Babe's  drowsy  bliss  as  he  floated 
near  her — Mrs.  Dick's  perky  red  bonnet — all  adorned 
the  great  rollers  sweeping  in  to  break  thunderously  on 
the  shore.  They  were  near,  these  very  good  friends,  and 
yet  she  was  alone,  gloriously  alone,  drifting  like  a  little 
chip  on  the  vast  breast  of  this  inland  sea. 

The  sheer  physical  joy  of  life — life  that  tingled  like 
wine  through  her  veins — thrilled  through  her  and  caught 
at  her  breath  flutteringly.  Tthe  magic  of  it  all — the  un- 
earthly beauty  of  sky  and  water  and  dawn  over  all — 
the  transparent  aqua-marine  depths  that  glowed  around 
and  beneath  her — the  power  that  lifted  and  played  with 
her  languid  body  with  such  strange  strength  and  wonder- 
ful gentleness — the  great,  mellow  diapason  of  broken 
waves  tumbling  against  the  breakwater  and  thrusting 
lengthening  plumes  of  snow  across  the  smooth  sand — • 
all  these  blended  in  their  intoxication  of  loveliness. 

And  June,  who  had  known  lake  and  Island  in  all  their 
moods  since  she  was  a  child,  only  found  the  fascination 
of  them  grow  the  keener  as  summer  succeeded  summer. 


42  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"Oh,  it  is  wonderful,  Sammy — wonderful !"  she  cried, 
and  Mr.  London,  swimming  near,  assented. 

"Some  lake,"  he  admitted.  Then  reaching  out  a 
muscular  brown  arm,  he  gathered  a  handful  of  bathing 
suit  at  her  shoulder.  "Breakfast  time — and  I  could  eat 
the  breakwater,"  he  added.  "If  you  can  rhapsodise  with 
your  mouth  shut,  I'll  tow  you  in." 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

NORA,  housekeeper,  cook  and  general  factotum,  had 
been  a  member  of  the  Ferriss  household  since  the 
time  of  June's  birth.  The  months  following  the  acci- 
dent and  the  death  of  Mrs.  Ferriss  found  Nora,  hale  and 
fifty,  a  tower  of  strength. 

Mr.  Ferriss  she  loved,  June  she  worshipped,  and 
Mrs.  Ferriss  she  had  always  regarded  as  a  trying  dis- 
pensation of  Providence.  The  method  of  her  removal 
was  shocking,  but  the  removal  itself  was  a  relief.  Nora 
did  not  mince  words  in  communion  with  herself. 

The  slow  recovery  of  her  master,  however,  she  wor- 
ried over,  though  she  lied  cheerfully  and  fluently  to 
June.  She  cited  astonishing  and  wholly  imaginary  cases 
of  a  similar  nature,  all  of  whom  attained  to  remarkably 
robust  health  within  periods  of  varying  length,  and 
June,  who  knew  Nora's  artistic  capabilities  in  fiction,  as 
in  other  lines,  knew  that  she  was  lying,  but  was  partially 
comforted  because  it  was  so  fervently  convincing. 

So  after  the  morning  plunge,  June  would  find  her 
father  waiting  for  her  at  the  little  breakfast  table  on  the 
vine-shaded  veranda.  He  would  listen  to  her  cheerful 
chatter  with  smiling  content,  sometimes  rousing  to  his 
old,  gay  raillery  and  mental  vigour,  but  always  to  sink 
back  later  into  a  sort  of  serene  abstraction  that  would 
last  for  hours. 

The  cushioned  steamer  chair,  sheltered  by  the  vines, 
a  little  stand  of  books  and  papers  and  his  cane  beside 
him  ready  for  use  for  a  brief,  slow  stroll  at  long  in- 
tervals, contented  him.  He  asked  no  questions  about 

43 


44  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

business  matters,  and  though  his  general  health  seemed 
to  adjust  itself  satisfactorily,  his  strength  fluctuated  un- 
certainly and  he  was  very  easily  tired. 

So  with  June  and  Nora  it  became  habitual  to  watch 
the  white,  high-bred  face  with  its  dreaming  eyes  and 
faint  smile,  to  anticipate  the  greater  whiteness  that 
would  sweep  over  it  when  the  effort  of  speaking  or  the 
sound  of  other  voices  sapped  the  vitality  that  remained 
low.  And  their  watchfulness  sheltered  him  and  kept 
him  safe,  as  in  still  waters. 

After  breakfast  they  watched  the  little  fleet  of  canoes 
threading  the  lagoons  on  their  way  to  the  landing  where 
the  men  embarked  for  a  day  of  business  in  the  city. 
The  women  folk — wives,  sisters  or  sweethearts — did 
the  paddling  while  the  City  toilers  stretched  luxuriously 
on  the  cushions  with  matutinal  cigar  or  pipe. 

Every  now  and  then  paddle  and  pipe  would  be  waved 
with  a  cheery  hail  to  the  sick  man  whom  many  of  them 
had  known  long,  and  fragmentary  plans  for  the  day  ex- 
changed with  June,  hugging  her  knees  on  the  steps. 

"And  it's  firewood  to-day,  Dad  Ferriss,"  she  informed 
him  the  perfect  morning  that  she  had  admired  the 
scenery  while  Mr.  London  towed  her  landward.  "If 
you  don't  have  your  fire  to  nod  over  when  the  night 
winds  nip  your  blessed  Roman  nose,  you  know  you  are 
not  fit  to  live  with,  your  temper  is  that  shockin'." 

"Of  course  you  and  Nancy  Hayes  and  the  Indians  do 
not  like  open  fireplaces,"  her  father  murmured  reflec- 
tively. 

"Oh,  well,  I  sort  of  lounge  around  the  fire  to  be  near 
you  and  the  boys  hang  'round  to  be  near  'me.  See?" 

Miss  Ferriss  waved  her  hand  airily  and  Mr.  Ferriss 
gravely  replied,  "I  see!" 

A  high  and  clear  "Hallo-o-o!"  from  the  direction  of 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  45 

the  bay  announced  the  return  of  Mrs.  Dick  from  the 
pier,  and  June  ran  lightly  down  to  the  boat-house,  where 
she  launched  the  big,  flat-bottomed  punt.  Tossing  in 
two  long  poles,  she  vaulted  in  after  them.  Mrs.  Hayes, 
first  dragging  her  canoe  up  on  the  bank,  followed  her, 
and  the  two  girls  poled  the  unwieldy  craft  skilfully 
along  the  winding  lagoon  and  out  and  along  the  shore 
line  of  the  bay  for  a  short  distance. 

Little  dancing  waves  played  an  impertinent  rat-a-plan 
against  the  wide,  square  bow  of  the  punt,  and  the  erratic 
breezes  whipped  waving  strands  of  hair  across  the 
flushed  faces  of  the  boat  women  as  they  moved  steadily 
from  end  to  end,  poling  toward  an  inlet  where  the  swing 
of  the  tide  had  piled  bleached  driftwood  in  great  shin- 
ing heaps  on  the  beach. 

"The  Lord  is  good  to  his  own,"  Mrs.  Hayes  remarked 
piously.  "That  last  blow  has  just  carried  in  oodles  of 
wood  and  right  to  our  own  door-yard,  as  one  might 
say.  And  that  outfit  along  the  beach  hardly  ever  get  a 
sliver." 

"Odd  how  those  freaky  tides  bring  it  in  through  the 
gap  to  the  bay  and  then  swing  it  around  and  back  to 
the  Island,"  June  answered,  balancing  on  the  stern  of 
the  boat  and  shading  her  eyes  while  she  gloated  over 
the  snow-white  heaps  of  the  jetsam  of  the  restless  waters. 
"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  splendid  pile  ?  Isn't  it  gorgeous, 
Nance?" 

"Bully,"  Mrs.  Hayes  answered,  springing  to  land  with 
sure-footed  agility,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  she 
was,  as  she  expressed  it,  "a  poor,  down-trodden  married 
person  of  five  years'  standing,"  and  making  the  painter 
fast  to  some  wreckage. 

June  followed  and  the  two  worked  busily  carrying  the 
strangely  light  water-and-sun-bleached  driftwood  into 


46  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

the  boat,  where  they  piled  the  load  several  feet  high 
above  the  gunwales. 

Then  balancing  cautiously  on  top  of  the  load,  they 
poled  slowly  back  home. 

The  Hayes'  cabin  adjoined  the  broad-eaved,  weathered 
shingle  home  of  the  Ferrisses.  Every  summer  since  her 
marriage  to  Dick  Hayes,  Mrs.  Dick  and  June  had 
"pardnered"  in  the  joys  and  labours  of  life  in  the  open, 
which  on  the  Island  had  the  full  delights  of  water  and 
land,  sun  and  storm.  And  the  Islanders,  who  were  for 
the  most  part  "old  residenters,"  held  to  the  freedom  and 
informality  of  the  earliest  days  when  the  colony  was 
small.  Deft  manipulation  of  the  Island  property  regu- 
lated the  admission  of  new-comers,  and  ostentation  and 
display  were  carefully  elbowed  away  to  localities  that 
desired  and  welcomed  them. 

The  Island  did  not.  It  drifted  and  danced  and  laughed 
its  long,  indolent  summers  away  with  friendly  content 
with  its  easy  dolce  far  niente  plan  of  existence.  At  the 
clubhouse  of  the  I.  A.  A.  A. — the  Island  Amateur  Aqua- 
tic Association — a  weekly  Wednesday  night  hop  was 
held,  to  which  city  guests  could  be  invited.  But  "dress" 
was  frowned  on.  The  men  wore  their  flannels  and  the 
women  simple  cotton  frocks. 

Entertaining  was  of  the  simplest  and  of  a  most  hap- 
hazard nature.  The  last  boat  to  the  city  left  at  1 1  P.  M. 
At  1 1 130  the  patriarchal  Island  government  had  "lights 
out"  on  board-walk  and  piers,  and  as  the  early  morning 
plunge  was  in  order  for  the  entire  colony,  the  Island 
retired  early. 

Saturday  afternoons  the  club  members  had  their  sports 
on  Long  Pond,  and  they  rowed  in  needle-like  "out- 
riggers," swam,  paddled  in  single  and  war  canoes,  and 
bunted  each  other  overboard  in  tilting-  contests  with 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  47 

padded  poles,  with  much  enthusiasm.  The  non-com- 
batants and  visitors  applauded  from  the  bleachers  on 
shore  and  from  the  line  of  water  craft  anchored  along 
the  rope  that  marked  the  course  on  the  other  side. 

Bets  of  gloves,  confections  and  small  silver  were 
wrangled  over  heatedly  and  the  decisions  of  the  judges 
disputed  with  much  indignation  and  shocking  disrespect. 
As  the  protests  sometimes  took  the  form  of  personal 
attack,  those  long-suffering  personages  took  the  precau- 
tion of  wearing  racing  gear  and  fished  themselves  out 
of  the  water,  after  an  argument  that  resulted  in  their 
being  deposited  there,  with  the  philosophical  resignation 
of  experience. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

AFTER  luncheon  June  and  her  father,  accompanied  by 
Mrs.  Hayes,  carried  rugs,  pillows  and  sand  um- 
brellas to  the  beach  for  the  long,  golden  afternoon  of 
drowsy  reading  that  led  to  the  five-o'clock  home-coming 
of  the  men  from  the  city. 

Along  the  sands  and  on  the  breakwater  many  big 
umbrellas  of  varied  colouring  were  tipped  at  crazy 
angles,  while  bare-legged  and  very  brown  children  built 
endless  castles  in  the  sand  and  upset  themselves  in  the 
shallow  curling  edge  of  the  waves  that  whirled  across 
the  smooth,  wet  floor  of  the  beach. 

Mr.  Ferriss  watched  the  waves  with  restful  peace. 
Mrs.  Hayes  chatted  with  much  animation  for  ten  min- 
utes, yawned,  and  frankly  went  to  sleep. 

And  June  Ferriss,  prone  on  the  sand,  with  her  chin 
cupped  in  her  hands  and  elbows  on  a  cushion,  lay  listen- 
ing with  vague  uneasiness  to  the  booming  against  the 
breakwater  and  the  hiss  of  the  "combers"  that  raced  in 
from  the  heaving,  glittering  expanse  of  the  lake. 

She  loved  the  Island  and  its  life  with  a  home  love 
that  rooted  more  strongly  and  deeply  with  each  passing 
year.  The  wild,  sweet  winds  always  appealed  to  the 
passionate  craving  for  free  things  that  dominated  her 
and  that  was  to  colour  her  life  and  shape  its  course. 

The  great  expanse  of  sky  with  its  gorgeous  pageantry 
of  clouds  was  a  daily  glory — primrose  and  silver  at 
dawn;  at  noon  piling  Alpine  peak  on  peak  of  dazzling 
snow  on  a  sea  of  fathomless  blue;  at  sunset  tumbling 
Titan  splendours  of  molten  copper  and  crimson  and  ame- 

48 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  49 

thyst  against  a  purple  canopy  pierced  with  stars;  at 
night  a  velvet  blackness  of  infinite  softness  and  depth 
with  its  slender,  exquisite  crescent  of  silver  looking  deli- 
cately down  at  its  shimmering  reflection  on  the  sleeping 
waters. 

Sky  and  water  in  all  their  moods,  gentle  or  terrible, 
held  her  in  the  ever-deepening  fascination  of  their  great- 
ness and  their  mystery.  Their  beauty  might  be  serene 
or  it  might  be  tragic,  but  it  was  never  coarse.  Their 
fury  might  crush  or  kill,  but  it  would  never  soil  nor 
offend. 

Life  had  already  spoken  to  the  girl  in  unequivocal 
terms,  and  she  shrank  from  it  as  from  the  harsh  vernac- 
ular of  a  harpy.  Intensely  human  and  vital,  she  had 
nothing  of  the  pale  sacrificial  fire  of  the  exalte  in  her 
soul.  She  wanted  to  live  to  the  full,  to  feel,  to  know. 
She  did  not  want  a  walled  prison  for  her  emotions  any 
more  than  she  wanted  the  walled  grave  for  her  soft  and 
warm  young  limbs. 

But  she  was  finding  that  Life  was  not  a  task-mistress, 
stern  but  just,  cruel  perhaps,  but  august  in  her  discipline. 
She  was  finding,  instead,  that  Life  had  a  painted  face 
and  a  false  tongue;  that  Truth,  bruised  and  bewildered, 
was  a  vassal  in  her  tinsel  courts,  and  a  thing  of  con- 
tempt to  her  shrewd-eyed  ministers. 

With  emotions  that  stirred  as  the  yEolian's  naked 
wires,  to  every  ether-wave  that  touched  them,  the  daugh- 
ter of  James  Ferriss  had  derived  from  her  father  a  gift 
of  dispassionate  analysis  that  reached  through  warring 
conditions  with  the  chill,  clear  accuracy  of  a  white  ray 
of  light  across  angry  seas. 

And  one  possessed  of  this  gift,  double-edged  and  true 
as  Damascene  steel,  is  one  who  will  pillory  their  own 
emotions,  who  will  crucify  their  own  dreams,  and  who 


50  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

will  lay  their  own  heart  under  the  lens  and  with  in- 
terest tabulate  the  agony  of  its  pulsations. 

As  Life  broadened  and  deepened  to  her  view,  she 
looked  upon  it  with  a  growing  distaste.  With  some- 
thing of  the  high  idealism  of  an  Arthur  dreaming  over 
the  nobility  and  fine  honour  of  his  Round  Table,  June 
had  dreamed  through  her  girlhood,  seeing  in  those 
around  her  the  gentle  women  and  brave  men  that  trod 
through  the  old-world  stories  she  pored  over  in  the 
attic  window. 

But,  like  Arthur,  she  beheld  the  crude  manners  of  a 
crude  world  play  havoc  with  the  stately  knights  and 
lovely  women  who  had  been  her  dream-familiars,  and  in 
their  stead  she  saw  the  horned  and  fanged  passions  of 
a  cave  and  tree  ancestry  stir  and  lift  beneath  satin 
doublet  and  jewelled  plume. 

Under  the  rude  awakening  she  winced  and  rebelled, 
and  so  rebelling  found  within  herself  the  dual  nature  of 
dreamer  and  philosophical  cynic.  For  her  dreams  she 
gave  battle.  But  in  her  own  weakness  that  sometimes 
startled  and  humiliated  her,  she  saw  the  weaknesses  of 
her  kind.  And  while  she  knew  the  dreamer  soul  of  her 
would  battle  always  toward  the  stars,  she  knew  as  well 
that  between  the  people  of  her  world  and  the  nobles  and 
ladies  of  an  Arthur's  fashioning  there  was  a  great  gulf 
fixed. 

"I  wish  we  could  stay  here  always,  Dad  Ferriss,"  she 
said  restlessly,  lifting  eyes  darkly  troubled  to  the  face 
of  the  man  holding  mute  communion  with  the  vast 
waters. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"Because  this  never  disappoints  me,  nor  hurts,"  she 
said.  "It  is  all  comfortable  and  safe,  like  an  old,  old 
friend.  But  when  winter  comes  and  we  have  to  leave 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  51 

it,  I  smother  as  soon  as  we  get  into  the  sleeper  and  start 
home.  And  when  we  get  back  to  that  great  hive  of 
swarming,  struggling  humans,  I  smother  more.  It  is 
discordant — false,  and  I  am  false  with  it.  Here  I  am 
just  myself.  I  am  real,  and  everything  is  real  around 
me,  and  I  wish  we  could  stay  here — not  leave  at  all." 

"Life  would  find  you  out — even  here,"  he  answered. 
"There  is  no  moat  so  deep,  no  wall  so  high,  that  it  will 
keep  Life  away.  We  are  lotus-eaters  for  a  little  while 
here,  but  it  never  lasts.  We  cannot  escape  the  mill  and 
the  grinding." 

"But  why  can't  we?  Why  can't  we  make  our  life,  to 
a  certain  degree,  at  least,  what  we  wish  it?  We  are  at 
our  best  here.  We  can  get  away  from  the  noise  and 
vulgarity — and  worse — that  the  very  air  is  saturated 
with  back  there  in  'the  mill.'  Why  need  we  go  back 
to  it?  Why  not  stay  in  the  quiet  places,  like  these,  where 
we  are  at  our  best?" 

"Because  the  mill  will  draw  us  back  into  its  grinding, 
in  the  first  place,  whether  we  wish  it  or  not,"  replied  Mr. 
Ferriss.  "And  because  in  the  quiet  places  we  are  not  at 
our  best.  We  just  lie  fallow.  We  are  only  vegetation. 
Our  spiritual  and  moral  muscles  grow  flabby  from  in- 
action. The  sins  of  omission  mean  more  than  some- 
thing good  that  was  not  done.  It  means  the  something 
bad  that  was  not  faced  and  wresried  with  and  overcome 
in  part,  at  least.  Suppose  your  regimental  colours  are 
spattered  and  ragged  and  earth-stained.  That  all  means 
you  have  fought  over  them,  anyhow.  Would  you  rather 
have  them  in  a  glass  case  like  a  sunrise  quilt  at  a  county 
fair?" 

June  sat  up  on  the  sand  and  hugged  her  knees,  while 
she  looked  up  at  her  father  from  under  the  brim  of  her 
soft  felt  hat. 


52  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"That  all  sounds  well  and  is  very  heroic  and  high- 
falutin',  James,"  she  remarked,  calmly  unimpressed.  "As 
Teddy  Tod  would  elegantly  express  it,  it  'listens  like  a 
Fourth  of  July  oration.'  You  did  yourself  proud,  if, 
as  I  strongly  suspect,  you  did  filch  some  of  your  perora- 
tion from  the  Fourth  Reader.  But  it  needs  the  popping 
of  fire-crackers  to  be  convincing.  You  say  we  should 
get  into  the  fray,  back  there  in  the  hive,  to  work  out 
character.  You  mean,  that  is  the  scheme  of  things  and 
we  are  a  part  of  the  scheme.  Who  gave  you  this  private 
and  valuable  information?" 

Mr.  Ferriss  reached  out  his  cane  and  gently  prodded 
Mrs.  Hayes  on  the  arm.  That  lady  sleepily  rubbed  her 
eyes  and  looked  reproachful. 

"Awfully  sorry,  you  know,  but  I  need  help,"  said  Mr. 
Ferriss.  "June  got  me  deep  into  metaphysics  and 
now  has  me  wriggling  on  a  pin  while  she  microscopes 
the  weak  places  in  my  logic." 

"You  poor  dear!"  Mrs.  Hayes  sat  up  with  much 
energy  and  pointed  a  small  but  threatening  finger  at 
June. 

"You  leave  that  nice  man  alone,  young  person,"  she 
said  sternly.  "You  can  out-argue  me,  and  get  me  tangled 
up  so  that  I'll  admit  that  black  is  white  when  I  know 
it  isn't.  But  I  am  stronger  than  you  are,  and  if  you 
get  too  pestiferous,  I'll  roll  you  into  the  lake." 

"The  argument  of  nations,"  June  laughed,  flipping  a 
shell  down  Mrs.  Hayes'  neck.  "The  stronger  nation 
wins  the  battle  and  then  sings  a  hymn  of  praise  to  God. 
But  where  was  the  God  of  the  Russians  when  Nippon — 
plucky,  clean,  drilled  and  devoted  Nippon ! — prodded  the 
mangy  bear  and  made  him  sit  up  and  beg?" 

"Dear  me!  Let's  go  home,  Dad  Ferriss,"  cried  Mrs. 
Hayes,  gathering  up  herself  and  an  armful  of  cushions. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  53 

"Don't  you  know  that  it  isn't — what  is  that  nice  old 
word  that  sounds  like  wax  flowers  and  Berlin  wool 
mottoes? — genteel !  Don't  you  know  that  it  isn't  genteel 
to  question  the  gods  of  your  ancestors?  Why  can't  you 
be  a  genteel  lady  and  'never  mind  the  whys  and  where- 
fores,' as  Josephine  used  to  say  in  Pinafore?" 

"That's  it!"  said  June,  tucking  the  rugs  under  one 
arm  and  slipping  the  other  up  over  her  father's  shoulder. 
"It  is  comic  opera,  so  much  of  it.  But  we  are  so  solemn 
about  it  all  and  take  ourselves  so  seriously.  We  go 
through  little  stereotyped  calisthenic  exercises  in  habits 
and  customs  just  because  our  grandfathers  and  the 
fathers  of  our  grandfathers  did,  and  we  are  funny  and 
we  don't  know  it.  We  won't  get  away  from  ourselves 
far  enough  to  get  perspective." 

"Shocking!"  Mrs.  Hayes  shook  her  head  mournfully 
over  the  edge  of  a  violently  coloured  college  cushion  that 
scraped  her  chin.  "I  wonder  the  ghosts  of  your  re- 
spectable Scotch  Presbyterian  ancestors  do  not  rise  up 
and  haunt  you." 

"The  ghosts  of  our  ancestors  are  pretty  much  of  a 
nuisance/'  replied  Miss  Ferriss  impatiently.  "They  es- 
tablished a  lot  of  customs  that  we  realise  are  poppy- 
cock, but  we  don't  dare  say  so  and  break  from  them." 

"My  dear,  they  were  respectable  people !"  remonstrated 
Mrs.  Hayes. 

"Yes!  And  they  crucified  every  human  emotion  and 
impulse  and  beautiful  thing  on  that  same  altar  of  respec- 
tability," said  June,  making  a  moue  at  the  pretty,  disap- 
proving face  over  the  cushions.  "Respectable?  Of 
course  they  were  respectable.  But,  good  Heavens!  I 
would  rather  be  human.  Is  respectability  everything? 
Why,  three-fourths  of  it  is  built  on  lies  and  smells  to 
Heaven,  and  you  know  it." 


54  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"On  lies !    Why,  June  Ferriss !" 

Mrs.  Hayes  rolled  the  cushions  in  a  heap  on  the  Fer- 
riss steps  and  then  sat  on  them.  It  was  her  duty  to  be 
shocked  and  to  try  to  show  Miss  Ferriss  the  error  of  her 
ways,  but  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  be 
comfortable  in  the  meantime. 

Mr.  Ferriss  settled  himself  in  his  steamer  chair  and 
looked  at  his  daughter  with  eyes  that  twinkled.  Then 
he  nodded  to  Mrs.  Hayes. 

"Better  send  for  Bayue-Gordon,  Nancy,  and  have  him 
give  her  a  talking  to." 

The  Rev.  Bayue-Gordon,  of  St.  Paul's-on-the-Lake, 
the  pretty  little  vine-clad  Church  of  England  to  which 
the  Islanders  wended  their  peaceful  way  on  Sabbath 
mornings,  was  an  English  clergyman  with  a  deep  and 
sonorous  voice  and  convictions.  June  Ferriss  rarely 
missed  a  service  and  told  him  frankly  that  it  was  be- 
cause he  intoned  the  psalms  and  the  litany  so  beautifully 
and  also  because  disagreeing  with  what  he  preached,  as 
she  generally  did,  aided  her  in  clearing  up  her  own  mind 
on  many  points. 

Bayue-Gordon  was  not  disturbed  in  his  convictions 
by  the  flaws  that  Miss  Ferriss  pointed  out  to  him  when 
they  argued  over  the  sermons  of  preceding  Sundays,  as 
they  frequently  did.  He  was  of  English  birth  and  ac- 
cepted the  church  as  his  brother,  a  banker,  accepted  the 
Bank  of  England.  They  were  Established,  which  was 
written  with  a  capital  letter.  To  question  the  infalli- 
bility of  either  was  of  as  much  use  as  playing  battle- 
dore and  shuttlecock  against  the  walls  of  a  citadel. 

But  the  heresy  of  the  calm-eyed  young  woman  dis- 
turbed him,  and  he  told  himself  that  it  was  because  she 
was  but  a  spiritual  stranger  within  his  gates  that  he  felt 
it  incumbent  upon  him  to  appeal,  whenever  occasion 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  55 

offered,  to  the  soul  that  was  without  the  shelter  of  the 
fold.  This,  of  course,  meant  his  own  fold,  and  he  care- 
fully evaded  the  fact  that  for  some  reason  he  found  the 
study  of  this  particular  militant  soul  strangely  enter- 
taining. 

"Bayue-Gordon?  Oh,  we  had  it  out  about  all  that 
yesterday  when  he  came  back  from  Town.  He  married 
Nan  Annesly  and  Captain  Sterne  at  noon,  you  know," 
said  June. 

"And  what  did  you  say?"  enquired  Mr.  Ferriss,  plac- 
ing the  tips  of  his  long  white  fingers  carefully  together 
while  he  regarded  his  daughter  with  enjoyment. 

"Say?"  June's  face  grew  set  and  curiously  old.  "I 
asked  him  if  all  the  prayers  in  the  church  service  and 
all  the  respectability  in  Christendom  could  marry  her 
thoughts  to  Sterne  while  Bob  Grayling  lived." 

"You  never  did!"  gasped  Mrs.  Hayes. 

"I  did,"  said  June  indifferently.  "Sterne  is  his  own 
cousin  and  they  are  nephews  of  a  lord,  and  Nan  will 
be  presented  at  court  while  her  fortune  will  fix  up 
Sterne  Hall.  It  is  a  convenient  arrangement  all  round, 
and  it  wasn't  very  hard  for  the  Annesly  and  Sterne 
families  to  bully  and  bribe  Nan  into  it,  and  no  doubt 
she  will  get  used  to  it  in  time.  But  we  all  know  why 
Grayling  went  to  South  Africa  so  suddenly  and  why 
Nan  began  using  rouge." 

"But  what  on  earth  did  Bayue-Gordon  say?  And 
how  could  you,  June!" 

Mrs.  Hayes  fluttered  her  hands  in  acute  distress.  To 
even  mention  Robert  Grayling  to  the  Very  Reverend 
Arthur  Cecil  Bayue-Gordon,  nephew  of  the  august  Lord 
Steyne!  What  would  June  do  next! 

"Why,  he  invited  it  himself,"  said  June,  pulling  a 
fragrant  branch  of  honeysuckle  down  to  her  face.  "He 


56  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

began  on  my  attitude  toward  the  church  and  what  the 
church  stood  for  and  all  that.  And  I  said  yes,  the  church 
stood  for  the  Annesly-Sterne  marriage,  which  was  elo- 
quent. And  then  he  got  red  and  said  very  snubbingly 
that  Nan's  children  would  be  connected  with  the  nobility 
of  England  instead  of  being  nobodies.  And  I  said  chil- 
dren nobly  born  of  a  man  one  loved  seemed  to  me  much 
nicer  than  unwanted  connections  for  unknown  relatives. 
And  that  his  church  might  call  that  sort  of  thing  respec- 
table, but  that  didn't  make  it  decent." 

Mrs.  Hayes  moaned  feebly.  "June!  You're  only  a 
girl!  You're  not  even  married  yet.  And  to  say  such 
things  to  a  man,  and  a  clergyman !  Good  gracious !" 

June  Ferriss  looked  at  her  curiously.  "Yes,  I'm  only 
a  girl,"  she  said  reflectively.  "But  it's  the  girls  whom 
the  church  marries,  isn't  it?  If  it  allows  us  to  be  injured 
and  defends  conventions  that  injure  us,  why  shouldn't 
we  talk  about  it?  Who  cares — but  the  girl  herself?" 


CHAPTER  NINE 

CANOES  from  all  parts  of  the  Island  were  floating 
gently  along  the  lagoons  toward  the  clubhouse. 
Each  canoe  had  a  tiny  lantern  at  its  prow,  and  the  lights 
looked  like  harnessed  fireflies  as  they  decorously  fol- 
lowed the  lagoon  curves  toward  the  Long  Pond.  The 
clubhouse  itself  was  gay  with  Japanese  lantern-hung 
galleries  and  strains  from  its  orchestra  drifted  out  over 
the  water,  accelerating  the  speed  of  lazy  paddles  with  its 
seductive  lilt. 

It  was  nearing  the  end  of  the  season  and  June  was 
dancing  with  young  London.  Keenly  fond  of  dancing 
as  she  was,  and  particularly  fond  of  dancing  where  lake 
breezes  played  through  wide-flung  French  windows  and 
the  rippling  silver  of  moonlight  could  be  seen  on  mur- 
murous waters,  yet  to-night  she  was  plainly  abstracted. 
Mr.  London  himself  was  much  less  loquacious  than 
usual,  and  his  dancing  was  not  marked  by  the  abandon 
that  usually  characterised  that  of  the  strenuous  young 
athletes  of  the  Island  colony. 

An  extra  number  of  Town  guests  among  the  flutter- 
ing arrivals  on  the  floating  dock  where  the  canoeists 
left  their  toy  boats  meant  an  increasing  crowd  on  the 
floor,  and  London  guided  June  out  to  the  gallery  railing. 

"Yes,  there  are  too  many  for  comfort,"  June  assented, 
lifting  her  face  to  the  cool  wind.  "Dancing  is  spoiled 
when  it  becomes  a  scramble." 

"But  will  you  look  at  the  Babe!"  laughed  London. 
"It  is  the  one  thing  that  wakes  him  up  and  he  is  having 
the  time  of  his  life." 

57 


58  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

June  nodded  smilingly  to  the  crimson,  blissful  face 
visible  for  the  moment  among  the  kaleidoscopic  figures. 

"And  light  as  Titania  on  his  feet — the  paradoxical 
gift  of  heavy  people.  Isn't  it  wonderful?"  said  June. 

"Whom  has  Nancy  in  tow?"  asked  London,  as  Mrs. 
Hayes  and  a  tall  stranger  swung  into  view. 

"Oh,  that's  her  man  with  a  nose.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber? I  do  hope  she  will  not  spoil  sentiment  this  time 
by  remembering  that  she  needs  more  bacon  for  break- 
fast." 

"Well,  that  moon  and  that  music  do  not  suggest  bacon 
exactly,"  London  admitted.  "But  breakfast  time  has  a 
habit  of  coming  around  every  morning  somehow,  and 
a  rasher  or  two  sure  does  come  in  handy." 

"Barbarian!"  laughed  his  companion. 

"You're  another,"  said  Mr.  London  promptly.  "Let's 
go  down  on  the  beach." 

A  short  stroll  across  the  sands  brought  them  to  the 
shore  where  the  waves  were  rolling  in  with  an  unusu- 
ally hushed  sound.  A  broad,  broken  path  of  ilight 
across  the  lake  marked  the  serene  course  of  the  moon, 
and  from  somewhere  out  where  silver  and  shadow  met 
and  merged,  the  buoy-bell  called,  hesitant  but  insistent. 

June  Ferriss  seated  herself  on  a  piece  of  wreckage, 
jetsam  of  a  forgotten  storm,  and  leaned  back  with  a 
sigh.  London  leaned  against  a  bleached  rib  of  the  one- 
time schooner  and  looked  down  at  her  in  silence. 

The  crisp  breeze  rumpled  the  golden  curls  that  clus- 
tered with  womanish  beauty  around  his  temples  and  the 
tanned,  handsome  young  face  was  given  added  charm 
by  the  moonlight. 

"Do  you  know,  you  are  really  a  very  good-looking 
boy,  Sammy,"  Miss  Ferriss  murmured  graciously. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  59 

"Yes,  even  Ted  admits  that  I  don't  look  bad  in  the 
dark." 

London  spoke  a  little  absently,  then  ran  his  fingers 
through  the  yellow  curls  and  tossed  back  his  head  with 
a  gesture  of  sudden  resolution. 

"June,  I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

He  put  one  foot  up  on  the  wreckage  near  her  and 
leaned  forward  on  his  knee,  looking  down  at  her 
gravely. 

"It  is  nearing  the  end  of  the  season  and  we  will  all 
be  scattering  soon.  A  good  many  things  may  happen 
before  next  summer,  and — June,  will  you  marry  me  ?" 

She  did  not  stir  nor  answer,  and  the  note  of  the  bell 
quavered  over  the  waters  to  them.  London  reached  out 
his  hand  and  touched  a  strand  of  her  hair  that  the  wind 
had  loosened  from  the  soft  coil  at  the  nape  of  her 
neck. 

"You  do  not  love  me,  but  you  do  not  love  any  one 
else.  And  I — words  do  not  amount  to  much.  They  are 
but  'dust  thrown  in  the  air.'  But,  June,  if  you  would 
trust  me,  I  would  do  everything  in  my  power  to  make 
you  happy." 

The  new  touch  of  gravity  sat  well  on  the  strenuously 
healthy  and  frequently  noisy  Sammy  London.  His 
tanned  face,  usually  alight  with  the  white  teeth  show- 
ing in  his  ready,  flashing  smile,  had  a  very  attractive 
expression  of  manliness,  and  his  eyes  and  voice  showed 
that  he  was  very  much  in  earnest. 

June,  her  whole  being  in  tune  with  the  soft  beauty  of 
the  night — with  the  old,  loved  charm  of  murmurous 
waters  and  vagrant  winds,  and  the  cool,  clean  sweep  of 
moonlight — looked  up  into  the  dark  face  with  a  little 
responsive  stir  of  the  pulses. 

She  had  known  him  for  several  long  summers,  this 


60  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

big,  clean-cut  Sammy  London,  and  she  knew  his  love 
for  the  "big  outdoors"  that  matched  her  own.  Her 
friends  were  his  friends  and  his  people  would  be  her 
people,  and  that  they  were  people  of  fine  ideals  and 
gentle  breeding  she  knew.  What  he  offered  her  she 
could  see  and  appraise  with  reasonable  certainty.  He 
came  of  conservative  and  conscientious  stock — of  quiet 
blood  that,  if  it  did  not  make,  neither  did  it  mar  his- 
tory. 

The  women  of  his  family  led  placid,  sheltered  lives. 
From  the  cradle  they  could  almost  see  the  straight,  calm 
path  that  closed  with  a  modest  headstone  that  marked  a 
straight,  calm  grave. 

She  would  be  cared  for,  shielded,  and  would  occupy 
her  quiet  years  with  little  unimportant  duties  importantly 
elaborated  to  fill  out  each  passing  day.  She  would  know 
sorrow,  now  and  then,  which  would  be  quietly  and  de- 
corously borne.  And  good  taste  and  self-effacement, 
which  were  the  household  deities  and  synonymous  in  the 
lexicon  of  his  family,  would  blend  her  life  insensibly 
into  the  general  and  gentle  monotone  of  theirs.' 

He  was  in  all  things  a  gentleman  and  markedly  good- 
looking,  in  a  wholesome,  virile  fashion.  His  youth 
called  to  the  youth  that  bounded  nymph-like  through  her 
veins.  The  strong  white  teeth  that  flashed  in  the  dark 
face  were  not  whiter  than  his  record.  His  life  was 
fastidiously  clean  with  the  healthy  cleanness  of  the 
athlete.  And  under  the  thin,  silken  shirt  that  the  wind 
stretched  taut  across  chest  and  arms  she  could  see  the 
trained  muscles  swell  in  the  splendid  curves  that  sculp- 
tors love. 

She  smiled  whimsically  up  at  him. 

"You  are  awfully  decent — and  I  like  you  a  heap, 
Sammy  London." 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  61 

Gathering  her  wrists  into  his  muscular  fingers,  he 
drew  her,  swaying  lightly,  to  her  feet. 

"Then  try  and  learn  to  like  me  more.  Give  me  a 
chance — Sweetheart — sweetheart !" 

The  yellow  head,  burned  with  summer  suns  and  winds, 
bent  low  over  the  brown.  June  yielded  to  the  muscular 
arms,  and  their  warm  strength  through  the  cool,  thin 
silk  against  her  cheek  again  wakened  the  creeping  stir 
through  all  her  pulses. 

"Sweetheart — sweetheart !" 

It  was  a  whisper  now,  one  with  the  whispering  of 
mysterious  waters  and  night  breezes  and  trees  that 
swayed  behind  them.  And  the  dark  face  lay  against 
hers,  and  lips,  warm-breathed  but  fragrant,  found  her 
own. 

And  why  not?  She  thought  with  drowsy  content, 
while  he  held  her  with  close  but  careful  tenderness.  Just 
to  drift  with  the  current  into  still  waters — why  not? 
For  uneasiness  and  vague  fear  had  assailed  her  lately 
and  disturbed  the  old,  lazy  serenity  that  belonged  to  the 
Island.  Dread,  unseen  and  formless,  moved  shadowy 
draperies  in  shadowy  corners.  And  while  childhood  and 
girlhood  had  known  the  blight  of  discord,  she  had  not 
known  till  now  the  gnawing  terror  of  impending  ill. 

Her  marriage  with  London  would  avert  it,  that  some- 
thing that  threatened,  and  she  shrank  from  it  and  into 
his  arms  with  relief.  Yes,  why  not?  They  were  young 
and  youth  was  good  when  freed  from  fears,  and  when 
summers  were  golden,  and  arms  muscular  and  shielding 
hold  you  safe  from  problems  that  disturbed. 

"June — will  you  give  me  a  chance?" 

She  pressed  back  from  the  lips  that  whispered  against 
hers,  and  the  wind  from  the  lake,  precursor  of  an  ap- 
proaching storm,  swept  with  sudden  coldness  across  her 


62  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

face.  The  bell  out  in  the  darkness  tolled  anxiously, 
fearfully,  the  wreck  against  which  they  leaned  trembled 
as  the  rising  tide  drove  against  it.  And  as  a  driving, 
ragged  cloud  greyed  and  then  blotted  out  the  soft  splen- 
dour of  the  moon,  the  long,  low,  mournful  call  of  the 
siren  came  across  the  troubled  waves. 

Assent  was  on  June's  lips,  but  she  found  herself  with 
hands  pressed  against  his  breast  while  she  turned  her 
face  to  the  lake  and  listened. 

"June !" 

She  shivered  and  lifting  her  hand,  laid  cold  fingers  on 
his  lips. 

"Hush,  Sammy !  I  don't  know — I  must  think.  Come 
— let  us  go  back." 


CHAPTER  TEN 

• 

MRS.  HAYES  occupied  a  hammock  on  her  shady 
veranda.  Her  friend,  June  Ferriss,  occupied  an- 
other. They  were  resting  after  the  hop  of  the  night 
before — not  that  they  were  tired,  but  because  Island 
life  was  more  given  to  excuses  for  rest  than  anything 
else. 

Mrs.  Hayes  greeted  the  monosyllable  with  enthu- 
ions,  a  box  of  chocolates  and  some  novels.  Miss 
Ferriss,  content  with  one  cushion,  stared  out  over  the 
bay  at  the  irregular  sky-line  of  "Town"  visible  through 
the  blue  haze. 

"Didn't  Sammy  London  ask  you  to  marry  him  last 
night?  He  looked  like  it,  if  I  know  signs,  and  I  think 
I  do." 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Hayes  greejted  the  monosyllable  with  enthu- 
siasm. To  do  this  justice,  she  sat  up,  spilling  an  ava- 
lanche of  literature  and  confectionery  unheeded  from  the 
hammock. 

"'Ray!'"  she  cheered  joyously.  "Now  you  will 
stay  up  North  where  nice  Christians  live,  instead  of 
going  back  to  that  ungodly  City  and  courting  destruc- 
tion for  your  soul.  You've  a  nice  soul,  June  child,  and 
you  shouldn't  lose  it.  Lovely!  That's  a  sensible  mar- 
riage." 

June  turned  suddenly  and  looked  at  her.  "  'Sensible!' 
That's  the  answer  I  have  been  searching  for.  If  I 
married  Sammy  London  it  would  be  only  because  it 
will  be  the  sensible  thing  to  do.  Is  that  marriage?" 

63 


64  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Hayes  cheerfully.  "You're 
not  going  to  quote  Laura  Jean  Libby,  are  you?"  she 
added  plaintively. 

"I  don't  know  whom  to  quote."  June  turned  her 
cushion  over  restlessly.  "There  are  so  many  points  of 
view.  If  marriage  is  a  practical  thing  like  selecting 
one's  dining-room  furniture,  one  should  be  sensible,  I 
suppose.  But  if  it  is  the  mating  of  two  people  who 
should  be  mated  and  who  are  intended  for  each  other, 
and  whose  mating  should  colour  not  only  life  here  but 
the  life  after  that  we  can  only  surmise,  but  that  seems 
probable —  that  would  call  for  something  more  than 
merely  sensible  considerations,  wouldn't  it?" 

"But  you  like  Sam,  don't  you?"  Mrs.  Hayes  fenced 
adroitly. 

"I  like  several  people,"  drily  replied  Miss  Ferriss. 

"I  know.  But  Sammy  is  so  desirable  in  every  way, 
you  would  probably  grow  to  love  him." 

"Probability  is  a  slender  plank  to  build  on  for  Eter- 
nity. A  marriage  is  supposed  to  be  for  this  life  and 
the  life  to  follow.  That  is  a  huge  thing  to  establish  on 
mere  liking,  isn't  it?" 

"Sam  loves  you,  June,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Hayes. 

"As  much  as  love  means  to  his  type — yes.  To  him 
love  is  largely  youth  and  propinquity.  If  I  refuse  him 
it  will  hurt  him  a  bit,  but  it  won't  hurt  long." 

"But,  dear "  Mrs.  Hayes  hesitated,  then  went 

on  anxiously.  "You  know  how  uncertain  your  affairs 
are.  The  dear  dad  is  not  his  old  self,  and  I  don't  like 
the  tone  of  your  lawyer's  letters.  If  things  are  bad, 
would  it  be  wise  to  refuse  Sam  London  hastily?  You 
would  be  so  safe  as  his  wife.  He  is  not  only  well  off, 
but  steady  as  a  church." 

June  smiled  a  little  drearily. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  65 

"What  appalling  things  you  respectable  women  advo- 
cate, Nancy,"  she  said  slowly.  "You  really  urge  me 
to  marry  a  man  I  care  nothing  for,  for  my  'board  and 
keep,'  and  you  quite  approve  that  manner  of  earning 
one's  living,  in  preference  to  working  in  a  store,  for 
instance,  because  it  is  easier." 

"Why,  June,  you  would  be  his  wife!"  cried  Mrs. 
Hayes  indignantly. 

"Words,  words!"  June  laughed  contemptuously. 
"What  difference  does  it  make  what  you  would  call  me? 
Would  I  be  any  different?  I  would  give  him  my  body 
and  bear  his  children  and  you  and  the  rest  would  asso- 
ciate with  me,  just  because  you  are  accustomed  to  look- 
ing on  that  sort  of  thing  as  respectable  when  a  certain 
service  is  mumbled  over  it.  I  would  be  thrifty  and 
cautious  and  crafty.  I  would  make  the  sale  of  myself 
in  cold  blood,  but  cover  my  tracks  and  have  the  church 
help  me  with  its  odour  of  sanctity.  And  you  would  get 
a  new  gown  in  honour  of  the  sale  and  send  me  a  set 
of  place  plates.  Lord,  Lord! — what  a  shifty  set  of 
well-bred  jugglers  we  are!" 

"June  Ferriss,  you  are  impossible!  And  what  per- 
fectly horrid  things  for  a  girl  to  talk  about!  Just  be- 
cause I  want  you  to  marry  a  nice  man  who  is  square  and 
decent,  and  who  would  look  after  you  and  keep  you 
comfortable,"  flared  Mrs.  Hayes. 

"Like  your  Persian  cat,  for  instance,"  laughed  June. 
"Take  your  brand-new  pump  out  of  that  maple  fudge, 
Nancy,  and  lie  down  again,  angel.  There  is  nothing 
worth  getting  excited  about.  If  I  were  a  Persian  I 
wouldn't  mind  your  plan  a  bit.  But  your  pretty 
sophistries  only  half  drape  the  facts,  and  we  have  to  live 
with  the  facts,  you  know.  So  why  shouldn't  I  look  at 
them  now  and  admit  their  existence?" 


66  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"But  you  express  it  so  baldly — and  it  isn't  so!  I  am 
talking  about  marriage,  real  marriage — and  you  make 
it  sound  like  a — a " 

"Prostitution.  Why  don't  you  say  it?  And  so  it  is, 
lots  of  it.  It  is  cultured  and  refined  prostitution,  of 
course,  and  we  have  certain  rules  that  must  be  observed, 
that  are  to  those  of  our  class  what  the  coarser  police 
regulations  are  in  the  segregated  district.  But  the  prin- 
ciple is  the  same." 

"Why,  those  awful  women  make  a  business  of  their 
terrible  lives — they  are  common !"  gasped  her  hor- 
ror-stricken hostess. 

"Yes,  they  are  less  lucky  than  we  are  and  do  not 
have  our  chances,"  Miss  Ferriss  said  calmly.  "They  are 
compelled  to  know  that  deadly  'weariness  that  lies  awake 
at  night  for  hire,'  while  we  can  afford  to  lock  our  door 
and  our  husbands  will  still  have  to  support  us.  We  do 
not  have  to  be  common  because  we  start  higher  up  on 
the  ladder  than  they  do,  poor  things.  But  we  sell,  just 
as  they  do,  when  the  choice  comes  between  that  and 
work." 

"I  do  not  call  a  respectable  legal  marriage  'selling,' 
June,"  said  Mrs.  Hayes  stiffly. 

"No,  of  course  you  don't.  That  is  just  what  I  am 
saying."  A  little  pucker  gathered  between  June's  level 
eyebrows  and  she  looked  at  her  friend  with  frankly 
dispassionate  curiosity.  "There  are  so  many  things  we 
do  not  call  by  the  names  we  could  call  them.  We  attend 
to  certain  little  outward  observances  and  patter  over 
certain  stipulated  formulae,  and  we  feel  that  we  have 
altered  the  fact  into  what  it  should  be.  But  we  really 
haven't,  you  know.  A  fact  remains  a  fact.  We  have 
simply  garnished  it  to  suit  our  own  table  and  the  tables 
of  our  friends." 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  67 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  a  nice  woman  who  is 
faithful  to  her  husband,  and  who  does  her  duty  to  him 
and  her  home  and  her  children,  is  to  be  compared  to  a— 
a — to  those  horrid  creatures  you  speak  of?" 

Mrs.  Hayes  was  not  dispassionate  in  her  view  of  the 
question,  and  her  pretty  face  was  pink  with  indignation. 
Miss  Ferriss  continued  to  regard  her  with  tranquil  at- 
tention. 

"Couldn't  your  nice  woman  be  faithful  to  some  man's 
interests  as  his  housekeeper? — if  that  is  all  she  can  give 
him  in  return  for  her  board  and  keep !  Do  you  think  it 
really  quite  nice  for  a  nice  woman  to  marry  a  man's 
interests?  If  she  has  to  be  faithful  to  him  as  a  matter 
of  duty,  doesn't  that  show  there  is  something  wrong 
somewhere?  A  woman  who  loves  does  not  try  to  be 
faithful.  She  doesn't  need  to  try.  She  couldn't  be 
anything  else.  Faithful!  Good  Heavens,  Nancy!  What 
sort  of  man  wants  a  dutifully  faithful  woman?  What 
sort  of  man  wants  for  a  wife  a  patient  Griselda  who  is 
barricading  her  heart  with  prayers  and  penances  to  keep 
it  from  straying?  Would  a  really  decent  man  tolerate 
that  sort  of  thing  a  moment,  do  you  think  ?" 

"But  her  children "  protested  Mrs.  Hayes  chokily. 

"Yes — her  children!"  June's  voice  hardened.  "And 
what  are  her  children?  We  call  them  legitimate  just 
as  we  call  the  union  respectable.  But  does  that  make 
them  so?  If  there  is  no  love  in  the  woman,  what  of 
the  child?  The  child  of  a  'dutiful  wife' — doesn't  that 
tell  a  story  that  we  do  not  dare  put  into  words?  We 
garnish  the  fact  with  pretty  phrases — but  Nature  won't! 
She  doesn't  back  up  our  pretty  make-believes,  Nancy! 
Nature  has  a  brutally  blunt  way  of  sticking  to  funda- 
mentals, and  her  original  fundamental  was  the  'call'  of 


68  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

mate  to  mate.  Of  this  she  bred  giants.  But  duty  wives 
do  not  breed  giants,  honey.  No,  indeedy !" 

"Oh,  that  is  horrible — horrible !"  Mrs.  Hayes 

choked  and  the  tears  filled  her  flashing  eyes. 

"Yes,  it  is  horrible,"  said  June  grimly.  "Though  you 
mean  what  I  say,  while  I  mean  what  is.  But  if  I'm 
going  to  live  a  lie,  I  am  not  going  to  waste  dust  on  my 
own  eyes.  You  and  the  rest  only  need  a  little  thrown 
your  way  because  you  are  socially  astigmatic  anyhow. 
But  it  is  no  use  with  myself.  That  attentive  female  per- 
son in  the  corner  only  looks  sardonic  when  I  try  it." 

"June,  I  sometimes  think  you  are  'fey,'  with  that  cor- 
ner double  and  the  rest  of  it,"  Mrs.  Hayes  exclaimed 
helplessly. 

"Well,  maybe  my  corner  double  is  only  what  you 
people  call  your  conscience,"  explained  June.  "I  seem 
to  be  always  conscious  of  a  self  who  is  passive,  but 
observant  and  critical,  who  regards  what  the  other  self 
does  with  a  full  understanding  of  her  motive.  And 
it  doesn't  leave  me  with  many  illusions  as  to  my  own 
superiority  to  self-interest  in  what  I  do.  If  I  marry 
Sam  London  you  will  continue  to  associate  with  me, 
but  the  corner  person  won't  want  to.  I  could  explain 
your  viewpoint  to  her  so  elaborately  and  convincingly 
that  the  Recording  Angel  himself  would  beam  unquali- 
fied approval,  but  that  wouldn't  move  my  gentle  friend 
an  inch.  She  would  just  look  things.  And  she  is  about 
as  much  impressed  as  the  Sphinx  when  a  dust  flurry 
pirouettes  down  the  Appian  Way." 

Mrs.  Hayes  retreated  behind  her  badly  demoral- 
ised guns,  dismayed  but  unconvinced.  June  was 
plainly  mad,  quite  mad.  And  one  could  not  talk  nice 
comfortable  commonsense  with  mad  people.  June  was 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  69 

clever,  a  daughter  of  a  clever  father,  and  clever  people 
were  never  really  well  balanced.  Just  as  further  on  up 
the  scale  genius  was  proverbially  insane. 

So  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to  placate  this  disturbing 
friend  of  hers  and  try  to  shunt  her  gently  into  the  safe 
and  sure  harbour  called  matrimony,  where  Mr.  London 
would  pay  troublesome  bills  and  smother  incipient  in- 
cendiarism with  the  foggy  blanket  of  his  own  and  his 
family's  unemotional  and  traditional  respectability. 

June  Ferriss,  like  all  people  who  were  queer,  had  un- 
expected ideas  of  sentiment  distressingly  mixed  up  with 
her  many  other  ideas  that  were  shocking,  and  while 
sentiment  was  all  right  in  its  way,  it  was  much  better 
to  keep  it  on  a  side  table  with  the  books  in  fancy  de  luxe 
binding  that  one  admired  occasionally  but  never  read. 

Mrs.  Hayes  had  herself  hesitated  over  the  respective 
merits  of  three  suitors,  of  whom  Mr.  Hayes  was  one, 
before  she  became  Mrs.  Dick.  Her  affections  were  in 
the  pleasantly  plastic  state  that  but  awaited  the  decision 
of  a  young  but  judicial  mind  to  respond  to  the  mould 
selected  for  them. 

Mr.  Hayes,  buoyant,  good-natured  and  well-to-do,  was 
the  selection,  and  the  other  two  were  gently  and  tactfully 
disposed  of.  The  plastic  affections,  as  expected,  settled 
into  place  and  Mrs.  Hayes'  tranquil  girlhood  flowed 
into  the  broader,  if  hardly  deeper,  stream  of  matron- 
hood  with  hardly  a  ripple  to  mark  a  change. 

And  Mrs.  Hayes  was  quite  satisfied.  If  there  were  no 
heights,  there  were  no  depths.  Of  ecstasies,  of  passion 
whose  way  madness  lay,  she  knew  nothing.  There  were 
people  who  had  strange  infatuations  and  who  got  them- 
selves into  the  newspapers,  of  course,  but  these  people 
were  classed  by  Mrs.  Dick  with  Filipino  and  Bulgarian 
and  Mexican  people  who  shared  the  front  page  with 


yo  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

them — individuals   vaguely    understood    to    inhabit    the 
globe  somewhere,  but  a  class  apart. 

June  must  be  made  to  marry  Sammy  London,  that 
Mrs.  Hayes  decided. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

T\YO  days  of  storm  had  lashed  the  lake  into  a  fury 
that  strode  Medusa-like  up  and  down  the  coast. 
Driftwood  strewed  the  beach,  while  thunderous  surf 
hurled  itself  in  frantic  confusion  over  the  breakwater. 

All  day  June  wandered  restlessly  from  her  father's 
room  to  the  wide  veranda  where  the  stout  vines  writhed 
and  twisted  in  the  wind.  Mr.  Ferriss  was  not  so  well. 
He  appeared  to  sink  into  strange  apathy  in  which  he 
paid  little  or  no  heed  to  what  was  said  and  done  around 
him.  He  did  not  suffer,  but  it  was  difficult  to  rouse 
him,  and  when  June  would  bend  over  him  and  speak, 
it  was  plainly  an  effort  for  him  to  understand  and  an- 
swer, and  a  relief  when  he  was  permitted  to  relapse  into 
the  semi-stupor  that  held  all  his  faculties. 

And  a  letter  from  their  lawyer,  received  that  morning, 
urging  their  return  to  the  City  and  stating  plainly  that 
their  affairs  were  in  a  serious  state,  tormented  June  with 
its  ominous  note  of  warning.  The  summer  was  over, 
birds  and  Islanders  were  alike  fluttering  uneasily  under 
the  hint  of  Northern  cold  that  stole  impalpably  over  the 
Island's  soft  loveliness,  and  the  vague  prescience  of  com- 
ing change  hardened  into  dismayed  recognition  when 
the  big  storm  caught  the  toy  structures  that  dotted 
lawn  and  sand  in  its  rude  grasp,  crushing  many  of  them 
to  ruin. 

Summer  was  over.  And  June  Ferriss,  looking  out 
at  the  torn  clouds  scudding  across  a  sky  of  gloom,  knew 
that  for  her  the  summer  was  over  indeed.  The  dainty 
sunlight  on  rippling  waters — the  delicate  languor  of 


72  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

long,  dreamy  days  and  tender,  moonlight  nights — these 
were  past.  A  rough  hand  was  dragging  a  change  of 
scenery  for  the  stage,  that  rasped  harshly  across  her 
shrinking  nerves. 

The  dolce  far  niente  of  Island  life,  that  had  been 
her  summer  life  for  all  her  girlhood  years,  was  already 
assuming  the  unfamiliar  aspect  that  familiar  things  trick 
the  memory  with  when  they  are  part  of  memory 
only.  She  caught  herself  looking  at  the  little  boat- 
houses  edging  the  lagoons,  the  Marquis-tents  where 
the  boys  were,  the  little  shining  rows  of  plates  and 
saucers  sticking  out  of  the  sand  where  the  boys  had 
washed  them  and  stuck  them  to  dry  and  await  the  next 
''feed-time" — all  the  little  homely  unnoticed  things  she 
noticed  now  with  painful  attention. 

She  had  not  needed  to  remember  them  before,  but 
she  wanted  to  remember  them  now,  because  she  could 
see  the  handwriting  on  the  wall  and  she  knew  that,  for 
her,  Island  life,  contented  and  care-free,  was  ended. 

The  dinner,  daintily  served  by  faithful  Nora,  was 
eaten  in  silence,  and  Mr.  Ferriss,  feeble  and  apathetic, 
was  soon  led  to  his  room.  The  logs  were  burning  fit- 
fully in  the  fireplace,  where  the  wind  now  drew  the 
flames  smoothly  up  into  the  black  chimney,  now  mush- 
roomed them  in  broken  splashes  of  lilac  and  amber  as  a 
blast  drove  down  into  the  room. 

June,  in  the  easy  blue  flannel  "gym"  dress  that  the 
women  of  the  Island  affected  for  steady  wear,  crouched 
down  to  brace  the  driftwood  on  the  brass  fire-dogs,  and 
leaning  on  one  knee  stared  with  unseeing  eyes  into  the 
flames. 

"Ye  said  Mr.  Kennedy  wrote  ye  bad  news?"  Nora 
enquired  as  she  gathered  up  the  silver.  June  roused  with 
a  long  breath  and  gently  laid  down  the  tongs. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  73 

"Yes,  it  sounds  pretty  bad." 

"Well,  alanna,  don't  shpoil  yer  beauty  sleep.  Thim 
ly'er  min  always  make  yer  throubles  heavy  to  make  their 
bills  the  same.  Sure,  an*  that's  their  business.  Oi  know 
thim.  They  cuddent  tell  the  trut'  to  the  mither  that 
bore  thim.  They  just  don't  know  how." 

"But  Mr.  Kennedy  is  a  friend  of  dad's,  Nora,"  said 
June. 

"And  the  ould  cow  was  a  friend  of  the  hay-sthack." 
Nora  scraped  a  plate  briskly  and  nodded  a  wise  head 
whose  grizzled  hair  was  gathered  into  a  frankly  inartistic 
knot  the  size  of  a  bantam  egg  at  the  nape  of  her  neck. 

"Ly'er  min  will  likely  get  to  Hiven,  but  it  will  be 
because  St.  Peter,  poor  dear!  ain't  up  to  their  thricks. 
They'll  talk  the  key  out  of  his  fist." 

June  smiled  and  patted  the  sturdy  calico  shoulder  af- 
fectionately. 

"You're  an  old  duck,  Nora  Casey.  And  it's  a  fine 
'ly'er'  you  would  have  made  yourself  by  that  same 
token.  But  I'm  afraid  there  are  things  to  be  reckoned 
with  back  of  Mr.  Kennedy's  letter,  and  we  might  as 
well  face  them." 

She  picked  up  her  heavy  wool  reefer,  slipped  her 
arms  into  it,  turned  up  the  storm  collar  and  then  pulled 
a  Tarn  o'  Shanter  cap  over  her  head  and  snugly  over 
her  eyes. 

"I'm  going  down  to  the  breakwater.  Don't  sit  up  for 
me,  and  don't  lose  your  own  beauty  sleep,  you  cheerful 
romancer!  My,  my!  What  is  it  going  to  cost  me  for 
masses  to  get  your  soul  out  of  purgatory,  for  the  fairy 
tales  you  have  told?  I  shudder  to  think  of  it,  Nora!" 

Buttoning  the  heavy  jacket  to  her  throat,  June  thrust 
her  hands  into  its  pockets  and  looked  sternly  at  Miss 
Casey.  That  worthy  sniffed. 


74  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"Purgatory,  is  it?  Sure  thin,  I  won't  be  lonesome. 
There's  manny  a  wan  that  tells  the  half-trut'  that's  worse 
than  anny  lie  that  I'll  find  there  with  me,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"Why,  I  thought  the  Recording  Angel  accepted  any 
kind  of  truth-telling,  Nora  Casey!" 

Miss  Ferriss  smiled,  but  there  was  another  sniff  and 
a  toss  of  the  head  from  Miss  Casey. 

"If  the  Recordin'  Angel  has  any  sinse  an'  knows  his 
bizness,  there'll  be  a  lot  who  do  think  that  way  who 
will  have  a  noo  think  where  its  warrum,  glory  be!  It's 
the  foine  surprised  folks  I'll  be  visitin'  with  whoile  yez 
are  payin'  fer  the  masses,  Miss  June !" 

High  over  the  breakwater  the  spray  leaped,  driven  by 
the  whips  of  unseen  furies.  A  greenish  after-light  that 
reached  across  black  waters  from  the  horizon  seemed  to 
make  the  heavy  pall  of  night  but  the  darker.  Thunder- 
ous waves  broke  and  boomed  over  the  sullen  rocks,  the 
warring  crash  hurling  its  maniac  din  through  the  moan- 
ing dirge  of  the  winds. 

June,  bending  low  to  brace  her  shoulder  against  the 
war  of  elements  that  beat  her  back,  slowly  made  prog- 
ress along  the  wet  causeway  and  at  last  she  reached  a 
corner  of  abutting  rock  that  gave  a  slight  shelter. 

Shrinking  back  against  this  and  clinging  to  the  slip- 
pery stones,  she  lifted  her  face  to  the  storm.  The  spray 
drove  like  whips  of  cold  silk  across  her  lips.  Tihe  wind 
closed  arms  of  giant  pressure  around  her  and  tugged 
stubbornly  and  ceaselessly  at  her  body.  The  illogical 
battle  of  unyielding  forces — of  waters  and  winds  and 
iron-shouldered  shore — raged  in  chaotic  and  fearful  con- 
fusion around  her.  And  over  and  through  and  above  it 
all  she  listened  for  and  answered  to  the  mighty  sonorous 
call  of  the  inland  sea. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  75 

Out  of  the  fathomless  night  that  lay  on  the  water, 
it  came  like  a  rich  organ  tone  that  had  gathered  its  full 
chord  on  Olympian  heights  and  rolled  it  grandly  over 
the  deeps.  Mysterious,  compelling,  the  night  and  the 
storm  bore  to  her  the  voice,  and  the  girl,  flattened  like 
a  piece  of  torn,  wet  sea-weed  against  the  rocks,  straining 
her  eyes  through  the  darkness,  thrilled  to  its  mastery  and 
felt  in  her  soul  the  beat  of  answering  wings. 

What  was  God?  She  did  not  know,  and  of  man's 
interpretations  she  was  indifferent  and  weary. 

But  of  this — of  the  voice  that  dominated  this  tre- 
mendous drama,  and  the  might  of  it  that  wakened  awe 
and  worship  of  great  things  and  strong  in  her  soul — 
of  this  she  knew.  And  to  this  she  came  when  a  strip- 
ling, leaving  doll  and  fairy  tale,  to  crouch  in  the  storm 
and  wonder  wide-eyed  at  its  terrible  beauty,  as  she  came 
now  to  give  her  soul  to  it  in  questioning. 

To  this  she  could  give  homage.  The  boldly  savage 
strength  of  these  battles  that  waged  through  centuries 
had  something  huge  and  clean  in  it  for  all  its  savagery. 
It  was  Nature,  bare-limbed  and  bare-breasted,  leading 
her  Amazons  to  war.  It  was  tempest  and  lightning  and 
thunder;  it  was  ruin,  perhaps,  and  death.  It  took  ships 
of  steel  that  were  years  in  building  and  in  as  few  minutes 
crumpled  them  like  paper  toys  in  mighty  fists.  It  took 
men  of  power  whose  lifted  hand  swayed,  Caesar-like, 
the  happiness  and  misery  of  thousands,  and  pitched  them 
in  derision  to  the  waves  as  unwanted  puppies  are  pitched 
into  a  pond. 

All  this  it  did  in  vast  strokes  that  painted  history  in 
splendid,  if  awful,  colours — that  wrote  its  story  in  char- 
acters savage  but  superb. 

And  now,  in  the  storm  and  darkness  where  the  far 
wailing  of  the  siren  struggled  fearfully  through  the 


76  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

surging  undertone  of  the  sea,  June  Ferriss  sought  for 
the  meaning,  the  key  of  it  all.  For  here  there  was  noth- 
ing petty  nor  vile.  In  Nature,  austere  dignity  outlived 
the  ages,  while  of  Man — what? 

Shifting,  change  and  temporise — unstable  as  the  sands, 
these  were  his  qualities  through  all  times  and  all  races. 
Pitted  with  vices  small  and  great,  swarming  blindly  and 
breathlessly  on  toward  a  goal  unseen ;  hurrying  like  ants 
who  obey  the  instinct  to  hurry  but  do  not  know  why; 
scrambling  past  the  dead  and  climbing  up  by  the  dying — 
this  was  the  unlovely  picture  that  the  City  gave  her,  and 
from  this  she  turned  in  bewildered  distaste  to  the  thun- 
derous orchestration  that  stunned  her  ears,  but  that 
thrilled  heart  and  soul  with  its  clean  majesty. 

Death  and  destruction  rode  on  those  black  wings  that 
lashed  the  waters  into  madness.  Death  and  desolation — 
the  "Maters  Tenebrarum" — attended  with  veiled  faces 
the  wild  Amazon  of  the  storm.  Death  and  despair  sat 
among  its  wreckage  while  dawns  of  tender  and  virgin 
loveliness  faltered  on  tremulous  tiptoe  on  the  threshold 
of  splendid  day. 

Death  and  magnificence  and  horror  and  beauty — a 
mad  and  fascinating  gamut  Nature  ran  in  her  many 
moods  and  sudden  vagaries. 

But  the  mean  and  small,  the  unclean  and  vulgar,  the 
lie  and  the  coward's  truth — of  these  Nature  had  noth- 
ing. She  might  crush  the  body — but  the  spirit  she  re- 
leased and  lifted  on  her  great  wings  to  heights  pure  and 
austere,  where  bloomed  the  Edelweiss  amid  eternal 
snows. 

On  June's  face  the  spindrift  lay,  wet  and  cold.  Her 
arms  ached,  and  her  hands  were  numb  where  they  clung 
to  the  sharp  edge  of  stone.  But  the  vague  terror  of  life 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  77 

that  had  gnawed  like  a  rat  at  her  heart  all  day,  began  to 
yield  to  the  war  of  earth  and  Heaven  that  dwarfed  her 
fear  and  herself  with  its  primal  and  eternal  strife. 

Clinging  there  with  the  wet  collar  of  her  coat  against 
her  throat,  with  her  little  stout  boots  braced  against 
the  dripping  rocks,  she  dwindled  into  insignificance  and 
saw  herself,  a  shred  of  flesh  and  frieze,  caught  upon  the 
edge  of  the  world  for  her  little  minute,  plaything  of  its 
storm,  a  leaf  on  the  winds  of  its  mysteries. 

Did  anything  matter  very  much,  she  wondered !  Noth- 
ing matters  much  because  nothing  matters  long — that 
was  what  it  all  said  to  her,  this  struggle  of  everlasting 
waters  and  everlasting  stone.  A  butterfly  of  an  hour  or 
a  Napoleon  of  a  half  century — what  was  either  but  a 
grain  on  the  surface  of  revolving  centuries  that  ground 
all  back  into  the  dust  of  forgotten  things. 

Nothing  matters  much!  The  wavering  beat  of  the 
butterfly's  wings — the  tense  battle  for  power  of  the 
Man — both  are  over  with  a  breath  and  Life  blows  the 
little  fleck  of  dust  from  her  palm. 

Nothing  matters ! 

June  drew  a  long  sigh  of  understanding.  The  under- 
tone of  the  waters  could  always  tell  her  this.  The  big- 
ness and  the  cleanness  of  the  storm  washed  all  the  fear 
and  temporising  from  her  mind.  To  give  herself  in 
marriage  because  it  offered  an  asylum  were  but  to  write 
across  her  soul  "Unfit!" 

And  for  the  little  while — would  it  pay? 

Nothing  matters  long ;  and  to  come  back  to  the  Island 
with  the  freedom  of  her  girlhood  bartered  for  a  price 
would  be  but  to  face  her  gods  with  eyes  ashamed.  The 
voice  of  the  storm  would  call  to  her,  but  the  wings  that 
now  stirred  in  her  soul  would  not  answer.  It  would  be 
to  sell  her  dreams  for  a  mess  of  pottage — to  close  down 


jS  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

the  great  horizon  and  the  wide  spaces  through  which 
her  spirit  roamed,  to  know  instead  the  shuttered  house 
in  which  her  flesh  would  fatten,  as  the  gold- fettered 
slave  is  fattened  for  the  market  place. 

The  greenish  light  had  melted  into  the  black  pall 
that  overhung  the  waters,  but  the  storm  clouds  were 
tearing  apart  raggedly  and  through  a  widening  rent  the 
moon  rolled  its  sphere  of  pallid  silver.  The  frantic  winds 
lowered  their  uproar  with  uncanny  suddenness,  leaving 
but  the  booming  crash  of  the  surf  that  still  reared  and 
fought  against  the  barrier  of  the  breakwater. 

The  tugging  at  her  body  relaxed,  and  June  stretched 
her  aching  arms  out  to  ease  the  bruised  muscles  and 
leaned  thankfully  back  to  rest.  The  battle  of  the  storm 
was  over,  and  behind  the  turbulent  curtain  of  the  sky 
was  the  world-old  calm  of  fixed  stars  looking  with  eyes 
cold  and  serene  down  on  the  futile  conflict.  Beneath 
their  immutable  disdain  Nature  rolled  up  her  scroll  of 
theatric  fury  in  haste. 

The  waters,  still  angry  and  rebellious,  were  now 
crested  with  plumes  of  snow  and  pierced  with  blades  of 
silver.  Withdrawn  were  the  Amazons,  and  in  their 
place  a  queenly  Presence  walked  upon  the  troubled  waves. 
All  the  mysterious  and  exquisite  beauty  of  the  night 
spread  its  wings,  dusky  and  gemmed,  from  horizon  to 
horizon,  and  the  white  splendour  of  the  moon  thrust 
back  shadow  after  shadow,  from  waters  to  sand,  from 
sand  to  lagoon,  from  lagoon  to  tree  of  etched  ebony 
against  a  purple  sky. 

To  the  familiar,  always-enthralling  loveliness,  June's 
soul  answered  as  an  instrument  tensely  keyed.  It  claimed 
her,  this  Night  and  its  hidden  gods  of  war  and  witchery. 
For  in  it  the  voice  of  a  Master  spoke — of  an  Intelligence 
above  and  beyond  all  human  imagination, 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  79 

She  knew  herself  Pagan — creed  and  formula  left  her 
cold.  But  on  nights  like  this  a  desperate  craving  for 
the  free  things  that  were  all  around  disturbed  her.  It 
was  to  their  majesty  her  spirit  answered  in  worship. 
She  wanted  to  be  one  with  them.  Church  and  code 
stifled.  They  had  fed  on  sorrow  and  had  builded  on 
suppression.  They  had  shackled  heart  and  spirit,  and 
she  could  find  in  herself  no  desire  that  went  out  in 
prayer  to  power. 

But  to  the  splendid  bigness  of  winds  that  swept  over 
palace  and  slum  with  like  prodigality — of  rain  that 
washed  the  pink  hedge  of  roses  and  the  dusty  alley  of 
the  City — of  moonlight  that  sought  lifted  eyes  of 
patrician  and  prisoner  alike — to  these  her  spirit  knelt. 
These  knew  nothing  of  limitations — and  the  gods  of 
men  seemed  to  be  gods  of  nothing  else. 

In  the  low  threnody  of  the  winds  that  now  came  fit- 
fully over  the  water,  she  seemed  to  hear  the  sorrows  of 
the  world.  They  waited  there  behind  her,  the  sorrows 
that  were  also  to  be  her  sorrows.  And  while  she 
shrank  from  them,  with  the  instinctive  recoil  of  the  body 
from  pain,  her  spirit  had  already  put  the  temptation  of 
the  lotus-eater  behind  her.  In  expediency  she  could  see 
a  littleness  and  cowardice  that  were  contemptible. 

And  lifting  her  face  to  the  wan  whiteness  that  flowed 
down  on  her  from  the  torn  clouds,  she  smiled,  even  while 
a  creeping  shiver  went  over  her.  Her  gods  were  there, 
the  gods  of  the  open.  Tihey  must  see  her  through  some- 
how. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

FAR.  ISAAC  MOORE  leaned  back  in  his  office  chair 
*-^  with  a  particularly  ferocious  scowl  on  his  face, 
and  tapped  the  point  of  a  lead  pencil  abstractedly  on  his 
desk.  June  Ferriss  leaned  back  in  an  armchair  near  him, 
very  white  but  very  quiet. 

The  steady  roar  of  the  City  forced  its  way  in  a 
heavy  monotone  through  the  closed  windows  and  on 
the  windows  the  rain  beat,  cutting  its  slanting  way 
through  the  grey  dust  that  filmed  them. 

The  doctor's  office  was  not  dusty,  but  it  gave  the  im- 
pression of  being  dusty.  The  house  was  old  and  the 
furniture  was  old  without  being  "antique."  It  was 
frankly  for  utility  and  frankly  ugly.  There  were  a  good 
many  shabby  books  in  some  old-fashioned  book-cases, 
a  discouraged-looking  bouquet,  left  by  .a  grateful  pa- 
tient, failed  of  being  beautiful  in  a  hideous  Majolica 
vase  and  a  painted  wooden  Punchinello  grinned  in  a 
surprised  fashion  on  top  of  a  huge  and  shabby  safe. 

The  Punchinello  was  for  the  entertainment  of  juvenile 
patients.  Beside  it  lay  a  small  china  doll  wearing  one 
red  cotton  garment  of  painful  brevity.  The  doll  had  but 
one  leg,  and  a  juvenile  patient  had  informed  the  doctor 
that  morning  that  he  "was  all  well  now,  but  that  his 
dolly  was  bwoken  and  peese  mate  its  foot  on  aden !" 

The  doctor's  note-book  contained  an  entry  to  "buy 
doll,  china,  black  hair,  7  inches,  chastely  attired  in  at 
least  two  garments." 

From  under  his  beetling  eyebrows  he  now  looked  at 
his  visitor,  taking  note  of  the  preternatural  brilliancy 

80 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  8 1 

of  the  dark  eyes  in  the  calm  face.  The  pupils  were  di- 
lated as  though  with  fear,  but  the  soft  lips  were  firm 
and  the  slender,  gloved  hands  rested,  motionless,  in 
her  lap. 

The  doctor  put  the  pencil  in  his  pocket.  "Qocd  breed, 
June  girl.  Eh?  I  knew  your  grandfather,  you  know. 
Gentleman — scholar — quiet  kind.  Can't  beat  'em."  He 
leaned  forward,  his  spectacles  twinkling  as  he  focused 
his  steel-blue  eyes  on  hers. 

"Now,  what  was  that  Kennedy  said?  Nothing  left? 
Kennedy's  a  croaker,  you  know — a  damrifed  old  raven. 
You  tell  him  I  said  so.  And  what's  the  odds?  What 
if  there  isn't  anything  left?  We'll  fix  things  somehow. 
Money's  a  poor  asset  if  you  haven't  brains  with  it.  Of 
the  two  give  me  brains  every  time.  They  will  buy 
money,  but  money  won't  buy  brains,  by  heck !  Get  me  ? 
And  you  have  brains.  You  are  the  daughter  of  your 
father  and  the  granddaughter  of  the  grand  old  man. 
Tlhey  didn't  leave  you  stocks  and  bonds  to  buy  an  emas- 
culated dude  with  a  title  trimmed  with  scrofulous  dia- 
thesis. But  they  left  you  something  better.  They  left 
you  intelligence,  and  that  is  something  even  a  rotten 
bank  can't  hurt." 

The 'steely  eyes  squinted  and -the  doctor  was  silent  for 
a  minute.  The  same  "rotten  bank"  had  just  added  ten 
years  to  his  sentence  of  hard  labour  and  lie  had  looked 
.forward  yearningly  to  the  time  when  he  could  "let  go" 
and  apply  himself  to  the  beloved  laboratory  work  that 
was  wife  and  children  and  home  to  the  lonely  bachelor. 

But  he  did  not  say  anything  of -his  own  loss.  Gently 
tapping  his  strong,  skilled  fingers  together  he  scowled  at 
the  daughter  of  his  old  friend.  And  she,  mastering  the 
fear  that  looked  out  of  her  eyes,  smiled  saucily. 

"Your  trimmy  title  means  three  meals  in  one's  'an- 


82  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

cestral  halls' — as  Teddy  Tod  used  to  call  them — any- 
how," she  said  with  a  little  nod.  "You  would  rather 
buy  germs  and  microbes  and  all  those  other  pollywog 
things  that  we  used  to  chase  in  the  rain  barrel,  than  the 
strawberry  leaves.  But  I  would  rather  bind  my  intel- 
lectual brow  with  the  leaves  than  a  headache.  And  it 
aches  now,  Mr.  Physician." 

The  doctor  rose  to  his  feet. 

"A  tablet?"  enquired  Miss  Ferriss,  hopefully. 

"A  tablet!" 

The  doctor  snorted  fiercely  and  stamped  off  to  the 
next  room.  June  followed,  much  interested,  and  mur- 
mured a  grateful  "Oh!" 

A  little  kettle  was  hissing  and  bubbling  as  ferociously 
as  the  master  of  the  house  and  that  gentleman  was  care- 
fully filling  a  silver  tea-ball  out  of  a  squatty  caddy. 

With  her  cup  of  fragrant  tea  June  returned  to  her 
armchair  in  the  office  and  the  doctor  followed.  Putting 
his  cup  on  his  desk,  he  stirred  the  tea  briskly.  "Drink, 
pretty  creature,  drink,"  he  quoted.  "Then  we'll  talk." 

"Well,  have  you  been  thinking  of  Ways  and  Means?" 

The  doctor's  voice  was  elaborately  casual  as  he  stirred 
his  tea,  but  the  blue  eyes  shot  a  piercing  glance  in  June's 
direction.  She  laughed  a  little  breathlessly. 

"Have  I  been  doing  anything  else !" 

She  deliberately  drank  her  tea  and  set  down  the  cup. 
Then  she  leaned  forward  and  it  was  evident  that  she 
was  marshalling  all  her  forces  to  meet  an  expected  strain. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  am  in — as  Teddy  Tod 
would  say — a  blue  funk.  I  am  scared  to  death."  She 
managed  to  smile,  but  her  lips  twitched.  "The  City  has 
changed.  It  isn't  the  City  of  other  winters — of  theatres 
and  shops  and  Fifth  Avenue  parades.  I  don't  know  it. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  83 

It  is  forbidding  and  threatening  and  I — I  am  like  a  cat 
in  a  strange  garret.  I  am  afraid.  Every  hydrant  is  an 
ogre." 

Her  eyes  turned  to  the  window,  to  the  slanting  rain 
through  the  film  of  grime,  the  wet  umbrellas  and  humped 
shoulders  hurrying  by. 

"One  doesn't  know  it  is  big  till  one  comes  to  make — ' 
to  fight  for  a  place  in  it.  My  place  was  always  ready 
for  me.  It  was  home.  But  now  it  is  just  a  strange  city 
of  strange  people  who  are  all  in  too  much  of  a  hurry 
to  want  to  bother  with  outsiders.  And  I  am  a  rank  out- 
sider." 

The  eyes  looking  out  at  the  wet  street  narrowed,  and 
she  turned  suddenly  to  the  doctor. 

"Did  you  ever  realise  how  little  we  know — we  girls  who 
have  homes  and  have  our  place  in  the  world  made  for 
us  ?  I  have  been  going  through  the  'Help  Wanted'  ads  in 
the  Herald.  It  is  a  good  place  to  have  the  conceit  taken 
out  of  you.  The  City  wants  'experienced'  people.  That 
word  is  there  oftener  than  any  other.  Everything — 
stores,  factories,  offices,- hotels — wants  experience.  And 
until  you  have  had  'experience'  what  are  you  to  live  on?" 

She  laughed  tremulously  and  shoved  her  tea-cup  for- 
ward. 

"More  tea,  you  nice  doctor  man !  And  I  will  tell  you 
what  life  is  in  a  strange  city." 

The  doctor  filled  her  cup  and  handed  it  back  to  her. 

"The  battle  is  already  on,  then?"  he  said. 

"It  is  already  on."  The  dark  eyes  smiled  over  the 
edge  of  the  cup.  "I  not  only  read  those  ads.  I  answered 
some  of  them.  There  is  the  dear  dad,  and  I  ought  to 
keep  Nora  to  look  after  him,  and  there  is  myself.  And 
as  a  wage-earner  for  three,  how  much  do  I  appear  to 
be  worth,  do  you  suppose?" 


84  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

The  dark  eyes  twinkled,  then  Miss  Ferriss  became 
grave  and  added  sedately — "The  City  seems  to  value  my 
services  so  far  at  five  dollars  a  week." 

Dr.  Moore  sat  with  head  soberly  nodding.  He  knew 
only  too  well  the  arithmetic  of  City  earning  and  City 
living.  It  was  an  arithmetic  sternly  close ;  it  taught  prob- 
lems that  dealt  with  fractions  of  fractions.  And  it  called 
for  "experience,"  in  the  getting  and  in  the  expending,  for 
many  thousands  of  the  small  craft  who  skimmed  along 
perilously  close  to  the  water  line. 

"Now,"  said  Miss  Ferriss  briskly.  "When  you  sent 
for  me  I  didn't  propose  to  come  here  and  burden  you 
with  woes.  When  I  said  I  was  scared  to  death,  I  meant 
it.  I  am.  I'm  scared  stiff!  But  that  is  because  it's  all 
new  and  pretty  awful.  I  can't  see  any  way  out  so  far,  but 
there  will  have  to  be  a  way  and  I  will  have  to  find  it, 
that's  all.  The  being  scared  is  merely  incidental.  You 
see,  I  am  only  a  carpet  knight  sort  of  person,  after  all!" 

She  shook  her  head  sadly  and  began  to  enumerate  on 
her  fingers. 

"I  can  talk  languages  a  bit,  and  sketch  a  bit,  and  write 
essays  a  bit  and  make  music  a  bit.  But  I  have  never  spe- 
cialised on  anything.  I  do  things  to  my  own  hats  and 
make  over  my  own  gowns  and  they  look  better,  if  I  do  say 
it  as  shouldn't.  But  the  'technique'  is  so  much  Sanskrit. 
There  I'm  lost.  And  my  versatility  has  no  market  value. 
Nobody  wants  it.  The  City  wants  specialists." 

She  got  up  restlessly  and  moved  across  the  room  to 
the  safe,  where  she  picked  up  the  Punchinello  and  shook 
his  bells  viciously  in  the  direction  of  the  doctor. 

"Not  that  I  am  admitting  that  I  am  a  fool,  O,  learned 
physician!  This  summing  up  of  what  I  can't  do,  is 
largely  to  clear  my  own  mind  of  dolce  far  niente  cobwebs. 
For  there  is  a  mind  there,  you  will  please  take  notice !  And 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  85 

it  isn't  whipped — yet.  The  world  isn't  mine,  but  it  owes 
me  a  living  and  if  it  means  a  fight — well,  I'll  fight." 

She  nodded  for  emphasis  and  cradled  the  grinning 
Punchinello  under  her  soft  chin.  Over  the  painted  toy, 
the  anatomist  noted  the  curve  that  ran  from  lower  lip 
to  white  throat,  with  satisfaction.  In  the  eyes'  depths 
fear  lurked,  the  lips  were  tender,  the  brow  dreaming 
and  sensitive.  But  the  chin  was  not  the  chin  of  a  weak- 
ling, and  he  sighed  with  blended  trouble  and  content. 

"Keep  your  wits  for  defence.  You  will  need  both,  for 
it's  a  waiting  game,  this  little  affair  where  you  have 
matched  up  with  the  world.  It  isn't  always  to  the  strong 
— it  sometimes  breaks  their  hearts !  But  it  is  to  the  strong 
and  stubborn.  It  means  keeping  your  thought  whole- 
some and  sane  in  a  morass  and  Bedlam.  Can  you  do 
it?" 

"How  do  I  know?— I  will  try!" 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

JN  the  silence  that  followed,  'her  eyes  watched  the  rain 
that  slithered  across  the  dim  window-pane.  On  the 
Island  it  was  coming  down  in  a  clear,  silver  curtain, 
whipping  from  the  lagoons  an  answering  spray  of  danc- 
ing drops  and  beating  the  sand  into  a  coverlet  of  gleam- 
ing satin.  The  wet  wind  was  as  bracing  as  wine  and 
rich  with  the  odours  of  earth  and  wild  grasses.  It  had  a 
delight  all  its  own,  a  day  of  rain  on  the  Island,  where 
the  skies  bent  in  phantom  mists  to  the  waves. 

But  on  the  city  window-panes — was  there  anything 
lonelier  or  sadder? 

"June  Ferriss,  as  you  have  modestly  stated,  you  are 
not  a  fool.  You  have  a  fair  supply  of  intelligence,  and 
intelligence  will  do  things  where  diplomas  won't.  I  have 
an  idea." 

The  doctor  thrust  his  hands  in  his  trouser  pockets  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  office  a  few  times,  thinking 
deeply.  June  watched  him  closely  but  in  silence,  and  the 
muscles  of  her  hand  were  tense  where  she  clasped  the 
arm  of  her  chair. 

"My  practice  is  among  neither  the  rich  nor  the  poor. 
It  is  among  all  of  the  very  many  intermediate  classes. 
Sometimes  I  send  patients  to  fairly  expensive  sanatoriums 
and  sometimes  to  the  free  wards  of  the  city  hospitals. 
But  frequently  I  have  patients  whom  I  send  to  private 
places.  Perhaps  they  live  in  hotels,  or  apartment  houses, 
or  they  are  theatrical  people  or  something  of  that  sort. 
Anyhow,  they  want  hospital  or  home  care,  and  they 
won't  go  to  a  hospital,  and  haven't  a  home.  So  I  have 

86 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  87 

to  tuck  them  away  somewhere  while  I  look  after  them." 

Dr.  Moore  paused  in  front  of  June  and  his  blue  eyes 
transfixed  her  through  his  bright  spectacles. 

"One  of  these  private  hospitals,  or  homes,  was  run 
by  an  old  patient  of  mine,  Mrs.  Harris.  She  is  going  out 
to  California  to  live  with  a  daughter  who  married  and 
moved  there.  What  do  you  say  to  you  and  Nora  taking 
her  house?" 

June  looked  steadily  back  into  the  keen  eyes  that  held 
hers  with  cool,  professional  appraisal. 

"If  you  would  trust  us!  I  would  be  awfully  grateful, 
doctor." 

Dr.  Moore  grunted  and  sat  down  again  at  his  desk. 

"You  supply  good  sense  and  Nora  will  help  lift  the 
heavy  end — and  I  will  attend  to  the  directions.  That  will 
make  a  working  team.  Your  nerves  are  all  right.  I've 
watched  you !  And  you  will  get  along.  It  won't  be  easy 
and  you  know  it,  so  we  won't  discuss  that.  But  you 
will  be  able  to  keep  your  father  with  you,  and  I  will  be 
able  to  keep  an  eye  on  him.  You  will  learn  more  about 
things  you  already  know  and  you  will  learn  a  good 
many  things  you  don't  know.  But  it  won't  hurt  you. 
Knowledge  of  any  kind  is  an  asset." 

His  eagle-shaped  nose  was  rubbed  fiercely  with  a 
strong  forefinger. 

"It  will  be  hard — hard  as  the  devil,"  he  said  crossly. 
"But  it  will  be  a  plank.  It  will  hold  you  up  for  awhile, 
even  if  the  splinters  do  tear  those  nice  white  hands  of 
yours." 

"Well,  those  nice  white  hands  are  going  to  make  some 
more  tea,  you  snappy  thing,"  replied  Miss  Ferriss  calmly 
as  she  went  after  the  kettle.  When  she  came  back 
and  stood  replenishing  the  tea-ball,  she  nodded  warningly 
— "And  if  you  don't  treat  the  nice  matron  of  this  exclu- 


88  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

sive  sanatorium  with  proper  respect,  I  will  feed  your  pet 
patient  nitro-glycerine.  So,  now!" 

She  laughed  saucily,  then  very  suddenly  dropped  the 
tea-ball,  sat  down  in  the  armchair  sideways  and  held  her 
face  against  the  back  of  it.  The  doctor  rescued  the 
little  silver  trinket  and  put  it  in  her  cup,  then  poured  the 
hot  water  on  it. 

Then  he  turned  snappishly. 

"Cry,  do  you  hear?  It's  got  to  come,  so  get  it  over 
with." 

The  soft  lips  were  pressed  together  in  a  white  line 
for  a  long  minute,  then  she  turned  and  faced  him. 

"I  won't  do  it!"  She  flashed  defiance  at  him  with 
wet  eyes.  "I  hate  weepy  women.  And  it's  just  be- 
cause I'm  tired  and  couldn't  eat  any  breakfast  and  this 
is  all  a  relief.  I  couldn't  see  any  way  out.  I  knew 
there  had  to  be  one — there  had  to  be  one !  But  I  couldn't 
find  it.  I  was  just  floundering  in  the  middle  of  the  At- 
lantic and  it  was  so  horribly  big  and  cold !  And  I  want 
my  tea.  And  I  want  two  lumps !"  she  wailed. 

"What  for?  Do  you  think  I  am  made  of  sugar!"  he 
demanded.  "There  are  your  two  lumps  and  they  have 
spoiled  your  tea.  Did  you  ever  see  a  Chinaman  putting 
sugar  in  his  tea?  They  have  some  sense.  Women 
haven't  any  sense.  Women  don't  know  enough  to — 

"When  can  we  move  in,  you  nice  thoughtful  man?" 
asked  Miss  Ferriss  sweetly. 

"As  soon  as  you  like,  and  the  sooner  the  better." 

The  steely  eyes  flashed  back  and  focussed  on  her  face 
again. 

"It  will  be  life's  seamy  side,  June  Ferriss.  The  ugly 
side,  much  of  it,"  he  warned.  "And  we  could  think  up 
some  other  plank,  perhaps." 

The  hands  were  white  and  the  brow  dreaming  and 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  89 

sensitive,  after  all.  And  under  the  ferocious  exterior,  his 
heart  failed  him.  Must  she  learn  that  ugly  side  in  all 
of  its  ugliness,  this  girl  he  had  told  fairy  tales  to  but 
yesterday !  Wasn't  there  some  other  way  out  ?  He  had 
no  illusions  left,  this  doctor  of  sick  bodies  and  sick 
souls.  The  ugly  side  he  knew,  rag  and  patch  and  stain! 
His  own  dreaming  and  fancies  were  so  far  in  the  past, 
the  present  so  grimly  packed  with  duties  leaden  colour 
with  sorrow,  where  they  were  not  crimson  with  sin ! 

They  had  crowded  out  everything  else,  and  the  threnody 
of  that  City  sea  called  to  him  and  claimed  him,  sorrow- 
fully inexorable. 

"Perhaps  we  had  better  wait  a  day  or  so.  We  might 
think  up  a  better  way " 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  an  uneasy  cough  and  June's 
laugh  rang  out  with  a  clear  and  genuine  ring  that  bright- 
ened the  shabby  room  like  a  rift  of  sudden  sunlight. 

"Talk  about  back-sliders !"  she  jeered.  "Who's  show- 
ing the  white  feather  now?  And  I  am  getting  ready  to 
get  over  my  stage  fright.  The  best  medicine  is  to  be  busy, 
so,  physician,  heal  thyself !  Nora  and  I  will  give  you  an 
imitation  of  two  lovely  ladies  running  a  sanatorium  as 
it  ought  to  be  run.  Watch  us !" 

A  white,  slender  hand  was  held  out  to  him  and  as  his 
own  closed  over  it,  she  looked  down  at  the  clasped  hands 
with  a  twinkle. 

"Steady  as  a  church!  Not  a  tremor  nor  a  flutter. 
Pulse  even,  hand  cool.  Needle  records  that  the  mind  is 
occupied  with  the  vagaries  of  moving  men  and  the  wis- 
dom of  an  early  gas  deposit." 

Then  the  twinkle  softened  and  the  eyes  grew  misty. 

"You  are  an  awful  brick,  you  know,  Doctor  Ike!" 
she  said  gently. 


*  I^HE  year  following  was  a  year  of  grim  realities  that 
•*•  often  seemed  weirdly  unreal.  Mr.  Ferriss  took 
little  heed  of  the  change  of  home.  Nora  shouldered  the 
heavier  burdens  with  the  cheerful  adaptability  of  her 
race,  while  June  met  the  changing  and  irregular  respon- 
sibilities with  resolution  that  flinched  often,  but  that 
forced  itself  on. 

The  idiosyncrasies  of  all  types  of  patient  called  upon 
the  tact  of  good  breeding  and  also  upon  the  large  view 
of  good  common  sense  that  keeps  itself  armoured  against 
inevitable  annoyances.  Nursing  the  sick  was  not  senti- 
mentalism.  It  had  woefully  little  of  the  redeeming 
glamour  of  romance. 

The  pretty  white-capped  young  women  familiar  in 
magazine  pictures,  always  looked  wonderfully  starched 
and  unwrinkled.  They  appeared  to  be  invariably  dimpled 
and  demure  with  little  curling  tendrils  of  hair  trying  to 
escape  from  a  dainty  little  cap  that  tried  hard  to  look 
official  and  severe. 

But  in  real  life  June  learned  what  it  was  to  fight 
through  long  hours  that  took  no  note  of  time,  when 
a  pulse  fluttered  thread-like  and  threatened  to  flutter  out 
at  the  first  relaxing  of  vigilance.  She  learned  the  weari- 
ness of  stubborn  fighting  through  long  night  watches,  that 
had  nothing  of  glory  in  it.  She  learned  how  surprisingly 
much  her  body  and  brain  could  be  over-taxed  and  imposed 
upon,  and  yet  respond  to  the  call  of  her  will. 

If  the  great  army  of  physicians  is  a  noble  one,  waging 
its  unceasing  warfare  against  pain  and  death,  that  auxili- 

90 


The  Towers  of  Ilium 

ary  army  of  women  plays  its  gallant  part,  fully  equal  in 
importance,  when  it  stands  at  attention  and  then  follows 
orders  to  the  breaking  point  of  endurance  and  beyond. 

Attractive  and  unattractive,  patient  and  impatient, 
grateful  and  ungrateful — the  little  procession  of  the  sick 
made  its  way  to  the  quiet,  old-fashioned  house  that 
seemed  to  shrink  in  mournful  protest  between  the  sky- 
scraper wholesale  houses  that  hemmed  it  in.  Once  upon 
a  time  a  stately  home  on  a  street  of  other  homes  as  stately, 
it  was  now  left  behind  as  the  City  marched  steadily 
North.  The  wholesale  houses  and  "loft"  buildings, 
where  were  manufactories  of  articles  as  familiar  in  the 
magazines  as  the  pretty  pictured  nurses,  were  forcing 
their  way  always  on,  and  they  had  driven  out  the  homes 
of  old-time  hospitality  and  closed  in  around  the  narrow 
brown-stone  house  with  its  iron  grilled  area-way  and 
high  stone  steps,  leaving  it  seemingly  forgotten. 

During  the  day  the  surging  monotone  of  commerce 
beat  against  the  shuttered  windows,  crescendo  and  then 
diminuendo;  but  at  night  that  quarter  of  the  City  sank 
into  something  resembling  quiet,  broken  only  by  the 
intermittent  roar  of  the  elevated  a  block  away. 

Friends  or  neighbours  there  were  none.  And  June 
learned  that,  for  complete  isolation,  Sahara  itself  could 
not  be  superior  to  a  great  city. 

Her  charges  represented  all  classes,  and  the  sudden  and 
severe  tax  on  her  strength  was  compensated  for  in  a 
large  degree  by  the  pathos  and  bathos  that  marked  the 
passing  days.  Around  on  the  noisy  avenue,  where  the 
elevated  trains  thundered  and  the  surface  cars  clanged 
brazen  gongs  and  enormous  freight  vans  plunged  and 
rumbled,  was  a  little  colony  of  tradesfolk — Italian,  Ger- 
man, French,  Hebrew — a  many-tongued  people  who 
accepted  its  mixed  condition  with  cheerful  philosophy  and 


92  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

sank  its  differences  in  an  argot  of  "the  Avenue"  familiar 
to  all  and  exclusive  to  none. 

Here  Nora  and  June  did  their  daily  marketing  and  soon 
found  themselves  drawn,  with  democratic  warmness,  into 
the  circles  of  friendly  interests  that  held  this  little  world 
together  and  kept  it  human  in  that  vast  and  cold  world 
known  as  the  City. 

And  wrested  from  the  City's  octopus  clutch,  a  small 
triangle  of  "park"  fought  bravely  to  keep  country-like, 
and  its  seventeen  trees  and  its  grass  that  managed  to 
keep  quite  green  through  most  of  the  summer,  made 
day-times  a  good  gathering  place  for  those  too  old  or 
too  young  to  work.  Evenings,  the  little  world  packed 
its  benches  and  sat  on  its  dusty  grass  and  strolled  around 
on  the  gritty  asphalt  paths. 

Here  Mr.  Ferriss  was  reasonably  safe  and  quite  con- 
tent, and  every  fine  day  was  escorted  there  and  left  to 
dreamily  watch  the  children  and  listen,  perhaps,  with 
his  fine  and  unfailing  courtesy  to  some  garrulous  old 
grosmutter  homesick  for  the  Vaterland  and  striving 
to  warm  rheumatic  age  with  memories  of  days  when  she 
was  a  madchen  in  the  fields  in  the  old  country. 

Meantime  Nora  cooked  and  swept,  and  June  poured 
oil  on  irritable  nerves,  listened  to  protests,  soothed  pains 
and  perplexities,  and  dragged  a  wearied  body  to  lie  prone 
in  aching  exhaustion  on  the  narrow  iron  bed  in  the 
small  room  she  reserved  for  herself,  at  irregular  inter- 
vals. For  night  and  day  frequently  meant  nothing  to 
her.  Nora  did  the  work  of  cook,  housemaid  and  house- 
keeper and  then  often  had  to  be  driven  to  bed  with  glib 
assurances  that  "every  one  was  settled  for  the  night." 

And  after  the  heavy  and  weary  tread  had  toiled  back 
downstairs  to  the  maid's  room  off  the  basement  dining 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  93 

room,  June's  labour  of  the  day  would  be  repeated  through 
the  night. 

She  learned  to  sleep  in  snatches — to  sleep  with  her  head 
dropped  on  the  windowsill  for  a  ten-minute  respite  when 
feverish  and  fretful  sick  folk  dozed  fitfully.  She  learned 
to  wake  with  all  her  senses  alert  at  the  faintest  stir  of  a 
sheet,  or  at  a  long-drawn  breath.  She  learned,  when  night 
watches  brought  her  to  the  breaking  point,  that  two 
swallows  of  thin,  cold  gruel,  taken  several  times  an  hour 
all  night,  would  ward  off  fainting.  She  learned,  when  she 
had  a  pleurisy  case  and  had  to  ease  the  patient  back  to 
her  pillow  by  inches  after  agonising  coughing,  that  the 
threatening  faint  could  be  driven  back  even  at  the  last 
minute  by  grinding  her  teeth  together  on  her  inner  lip 
till  the  blood  ran.  It  made  her  very  sick,  it  is  true,  but  the 
faint  was  side-tracked  and  the  patient  was  not  neglected. 
And  her  life  was  now  made  up  of  the  one  dumb  and 
clogged  effort,  day  and  night,  to  pull  her  sick  through  to 
the  "discharged"  that  brought  its  dull  sort  of  comfort  in 
the  knowledge  of  a  duty  done. 

The  wife  of  a  Methodist  minister  from  a  small  town 
upstate  occupied  one  room,  at  a  time  when  a  pretty  little 
broncho-rider,  with  the  delicate  face  of  a  Dresden  doll, 
wrists  and  arm  muscles  of  steel  and  an  astonishing  vo- 
cabulary, occupied  the  room  next.  Across  the  hall  a 
newspaper  artist  lay  in  the  dark  with  bandaged  eyes,  and 
counted  days  and  dollars  while  he  waited  for  the  verdict. 

When  the  verdict  came  and  he  had  no  more  dollars 
to  count,  he  gave  up  the  room — but  not  the  darkness, 
which  would  go  with  him  now  for  life — and  he  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  City  sea. 

The  wife  of  a  commercial  traveller  had  his  room  next 
and  her  baby  was  born  there.  A  gambler  took  the  room 
of  the  Methodist  minister's  wife  when  she  went  home, 


94  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

and  a  book-binder  from  a  Bible  publishing  house  had  the 
pretty  little  broncho-rider's  room  when  they  took  her 
away  to  be  buried. 

Others  in  turn  followed  these  and  June  usually  had 
from  one  to  three  patients.  Occasionally  she  had  none, 
and  then  the  tension  would  relax  with  a  snap  and  she 
would  creep  into  the  little  iron  bed  and  stay  there  as 
long  as  she  could,  to  store  up  enough  energy  for  the 
coming  work  while,  like  the  artist,  she  anxiously  counted 
days  and  dollars. 

For  she  found  it  impossible  to  save.  Rent  and  ex- 
penses were  high  and  prosperous  months  alternated  with 
dull  ones. 

Then  came  a  day  when  Dr.  Ike's  beloved  laboratory 
turned  traitor.  The  newspapers  headlined  largely  about 
"another  brave  martyr  to  science,"  a  brother  laboratory- 
worker  and  embryo  martyr  bought  his  books,  and  a 
second-hand  man  bought  his  furniture.  And  when  every- 
thing was  settled  up  there  was  just  enough  left  to  cover 
the  modest  cost  of  cremation. 

The  rain  slithered  across  the  dim  windows  in  the  same 
depressing  way  that  it  had  a  year  before  when  Dr.  Ike 
made  tea  for  her  and  snapped  her  head  off  and  steered 
her  into  a  safe  harbour  for  the  time  being. 

June  could  see  the  little  copper  kettle  from  where  she 
sat  listening  numbly  to  the  hurried  clergyman  who  tried 
not  to  appear  hurried.  Quite  a  gathering  of  the  medical 
fraternity  also  sat  and  appeared  to  listen  and  tried  not  to 
look  hurried.  But  the  call  of  the  City  harassed  them — 
it  beat  into  the  closed  house  from  that  tide  that  ebbed 
and  flowed  and  never  stopped.  It  was  the  call  that  cared 
nothing  for  death — the  dead  were  of  the  Past  just  as  soon 
as  they  were  dead,  and  the  City  was  too  hurried  to  linger 
over  a  closing  door. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  95 

Dr.  Ike  did  not  seem  to  mind,  however.  His  face 
was  like  old  ivory  and  it  looked  indifferent  and  wonder- 
fully rested.  His  researches  were  over  and  what  he  had 
learned  he  had  passed  on  to  those  younger  and  still  en- 
thusiastic. What  he  had  not  learned — well,  he  had  not 
learned,  that  was  all.  He  had  groped  toward  the  light, 
but  hands  brawny  and  scrawny  and  blistered  and  cal- 
loused— hands  bony  and  starved  and  weak — had  held  him 
back  with  their  weakness. 

They  would  not  let  him  seek  the  light,  and  the  stolen 
hour  with  its  tubes  and  tests  had  turned  and  struck 
back  with  fangs. 

And  now  they  were  fastening  down  the  black  cover 
over  the  face  that  looked  like  old  ivory  and  the  physicians 
were  furtively  looking  at  their  watches  and  the  clergyman 
was  stamping  his  feet  into  goloshes. 

And  June  shrank  back  against  the  wall  as  the  scuffling 
procession  went  out  into  the  slanting  rain ;  carriage  doors 
slammed  briskly  and  eager  horses  started  away  on  a  hur- 
ried trot.  The  second-hand  man  was  already  in  the 
basement  engaged  in  a  heated  argument  with  the  janitor 
who  stoutly  defended  his  rights  to  perquisites. 

Dr.  Ike  was  not  only  very  suddenly  dead,  but  already 
engulfed,  and  to-morrow  would  be  hardly  remembered. 
June  looked  around  the  dusty  office,  dry-eyed  but  with 
a  hard  ache  clutching  her  throat.  On  the  big  safe  filled 
with  its  records  and  notes  the  Punchinello  grinned  imp- 
ishly, his  pointed  cotton  collar  tipped  with  little  brass 
bells  half  over  his  head,  half  hanging  down  over  the 
edge  of  the  safe. 

With  a  sudden,  hot  anger  in  her  heart,  June  picked  up 
the  toy  and  thrust  it  under  her  raincoat.  Dr.  Ike  had 
often  gravely  given  it  to  her  "to  play  with"  while  she 
waited  till  he  was  through  with  his  office  patients  and 


96  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

they  could  sit  down  for  a  restful  cup  of  tea  and  a  com- 
forting visit.  She  could  not  endure  the  thought  of 
rough  contempt  pitching  it  out,  a  faded  toy.  The  poig- 
nant pathos  of  inanimate  things  long  familiarly  used  by 
hands  suddenly  grown  very  still,  gripped  her.  The  little 
trivial  nonsense  that  they  had  dragged  forward  with 
grim  courage  to  leaven  the  labour  that  bore  them  both 
down,  seemed  now  of  supreme  importance.  They  would 
give  battle  for  a  stubborn  case  together,  hour  after  hour, 
grey-faced  and  tight-lipped.  Then,  the  battle  won,  they 
would  go  over  symptoms  and  "case-history"  haggard  but 
glad,  while  they  sipped  fragrant  Oolong  and  abused  each 
other  viciously  and  affectionately. 

"You,  of  course,  did  very  well,  you  know,  you  dear 
thing,"  June  would  concede  generously.  "But  it  was 
really  my  scientific  nursing  that  pulled  the  poor  man 
through." 

"Just  how  any  of  my  patients  managed  to  live  at  all 
before  you  came  to  manage  things,  is  something  I  can- 
not understand,"  Dr.  Moore  would  reply  with  elaborate 
sarcasm. 

"Me  too!"  Miss  Ferriss  would  agree  with  a  puzzled 
shake  of  the  head.  "Though,  of  course,  Nature  will  do 
wonders  if  not  interfered  with  too  much  by  well-meaning 
gentlemen  who  need  the  money." 

The  fight  would  then  be  on,  a  brisk  interchange  of 
cannister,  to  wind  up  in  a  gay  peal  of  laughter  and  a 
ferocious  snort  as  one  or  the  other  went  down  under  a 
lucky  shot.  Weariness,  depression,  anxiety  and  dread 
were  routed  in  the  brisk  war  of  words  over  which  the 
Punchinello  presided  with  his  friendly  and  knowing  grin. 
The  morrow  with  its  new  effort,  its  impending  strain  of 
nerve  and  muscle,  was  yet  the  morrow.  The  hour  of 
respite  held  the  soothing  little  kettle,  the  peppery  quip,  the 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  97 

humorous  flash  of  friendly  eyes.  And  the  plodding 
physician,  longing  for  the  laboratory  mysteries  as  a  lover 
for  the  subtle  charm  of  his  mistress,  would  settle  the 
yoke  once  more  on  his  shoulders  with  a  shrug  of  resig- 
nation. 

And  June  thrust  back  the  knowledge  of  a  good  con- 
stitution being  imposed  upon  and  of  a  warning  pain 
that  stabbed.  Broken  rest,  lifting  of  heavy,  inert  bodies, 
many  trips  a  day  up  and  down  stairs,  were  the  things 
that  meant,  sooner  or  later,  a  day  of  reckoning. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

BUT  she  was  between  two  stone  walls  and  there  was 
no  opening  but  the  narrow  way  and  no  turning  back. 
So  she  held  her  teeth  together  when  the  pain  stabbed, 
and  taught  her  features  and  her  eyes  to  remain  tranquil. 

With  Dr.  Moore,  as  with  Mr.  Ferriss  and  Nora,  she 
was  always  cheerfully  interested  and  no  one  suspected 
the  flagging  strength  that  gave  no  sign. 

But  now,  as  she  held  the  small  wooden  head  of  the  toy 
against  her  breast  and  looked  around  at  the  worn,  familiar 
old  furniture,  eloquent  of  a  good  friend  gone,  of  a  com- 
radeship ended,  she  quailed. 

It  had  been  her  council-chamber,  her  refuge.  With 
all  its  shabbiness  it  was  a  garden  from  which  she  re- 
turned comforted  and  strengthened.  It  had  meant  a 
citadel  that  held  wisdom  and  protection.  The  cloud 
through  which  her  father's  once  keen  eyes  now  looked  in 
patient  perplexity;  Nora's  limitations,  loyal  and  devoted 
though  she  was ;  the  anxieties  and  dangers  that  burdened 
the  days  and  nights — all  these  she  could  cope  with  with 
a  certain  fortitude  while  she  had  that  shabby  office  to 
go  to  and  chummily  "talk  things  over." 

And  that,  in  Life's  endlessly  turning  kaleidoscope,  was 
dissolving. 

June  groped  her  way  through  the  dark  hall  to  the  door. 
Dr.  Ike  used  to  open  it  for  her  and  thump  her  smartly 
on  the  back  as  she  went  out,  with  the  information  that 
"She'd  do!"  And  she  stood  still  in  the  dark  with  her 
head  drooped  forward  against  the  old  walnut  panel. 

98 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  99 

One  evening  several  months  after  Dr.  Moore's  death, 
June  sent  weary  Nora  to  bed  and  went  to  her  own  room 
to  think  things  over.  It  was  easier  to  think  in  the  dark, 
and  saved  gas,  so  June  stretched  her  own  tired  limbs 
on  the  narrow  bed  beside  the  one  window  that  faced  a 
street  oddly  quiet. 

The  sky  glare  of  the  City  reflected  back  its  ochre 
tinge  over  the  crude  glare  of  the  electrics,  and  the  roar 
of  passing  trains  on  the  elevated  swept  hastily  down  the 
canon-street  from  the  Avenue  and  died  as  hastily  away 
again. 

Uptown  the  City  was  joyous — ablaze  with  light  and 
athrill  with  song  and  laughter.  But  here  in  her  plain 
little  room  June  saw  it  only  as  something  huge  and 
sinister.  With  hard  work  and  with  a  strong  and  steady 
friend  beside  her,  she  had  managed  to  shoulder  back  that 
vague  Something  that  brooded  with  ominous  wings  and 
unsleeping  eyes  over  the  women  who  toiled. 

But  the  friend  was  taken  and  the  desultory  patients 
sent  by  other  physicians  were  not  enough  to  keep  things 
even.  City  rents  were  appallingly  high,  and  the  little 
reserve  fund  that  had  been  comforting  to  think  of,  melted 
rapidly. 

They  were  not  keeping  even — they  were  going  steadily 
behind.  And  now  Nora,  the  faithful,  was  wanted  at 
home,  where  her  old  mother  was  trying  to  realise  that  a 
fall  down  two  steps  had  made  her  a  cripple  for  the  rest 
of  her  life  with  a  fractured  hip. 

Nora  must  go.  Nothing  short  of  a  miracle  would 
supply  some  one  else  who  would  labour  for  them  as  she 
had  done.  Patients  were  fewer,  the  rent  due  monthly 
and  a  lease  that  had  an  alarming  time  yet  to  run,  com- 
plicated matters.  And  even  if  she  gave  up  the  house, 
where  would  she  go  and  what  would  she  do  ? 


loo  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

A  wave  of  utter,  deadly  weariness  rolled  over,  like  a 
tangible  sluggish  thing.  She  flung  her  arms  out  beside 
her  and  twisted  her  head  far  back  on  the  pillow.  Anxiety, 
loneliness,  weariness — they  were  not  enough,  for  the  pain 
that  had  now  become  her  familiar,  that  once  stabbed,  now 
bored  dully  and  steadily  into  her  side. 

Unknown  to  Dr.  Moore,  she  had  consulted  a  confrere 
who  was  a  specialist.  An  injury  obscure  at  the  time 
of  the  motor  accident,  had  slowly  but  inexorably  made 
itself  evident  since.  And  there  was  no  cure.  She  had 
insisted  upon  a  cold-blooded  diagnosis,  and  looking  into 
her  steady,  compelling  eyes,  the  surgeon,  rather  to  his 
own  astonishment,  had  given  it. 

Her  thought  leaped  back  to  the  Island — to  the  colony 
that  foregathered  there  year  after  year,  merry,  warm- 
hearted, well-bred  people  still  faithful  to  old-fashioned 
traditions  that  were  as  simple  and  fragrant  as  dried 
lavender.  The  homes  were  not  sea-coast  palaces.  They 
were  all  "about  of  a  muchness"  as  Mr.  Todhunter  used 
to  say — very  comfortable,  with  couches  where  a  fellow 
could  kick  his  heels  without  danger  of  injuring  brocades 
or  mahogany.  The  servants  were  mostly  "old  timers" 
who  had  not  a  little  to  say  to  the  family  regarding  the 
family  affairs  and  whose  criticisms  were  received  meekly. 

It  was  all  safe  and  pleasant  and  shielded  from  any- 
thing that  savoured  of  the  "seamy  side"  of  life.  Its  weeks 
and  months  of  prolonged  spring  and  summer  and  fall 
were  all  so  serenely  alike  and  yet  never  for  a  moment 
monotonous.  It  was  the  lotus-eating  of  gentle  women 
and  quiet  men  satisfied  with  the  home  of  gentle  courtesies 
and  with  their  old  ideals  that  looked  upon  the  modern 
loudness  and  display  with  grave  distaste. 

The  world's  harsher  side  they  knew  of  only  in  a  vague 
way — in  a  way  quite  impersonal.  It  was  beyond  their 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  101 

ken,  out  of  their  orbit,  and  it  simply  never  occurred 
to  them  that  they  were  or  might  be  concerned  in  any 
way  with  problems  that  had  always  existed  and  that 
were  not  their  problems. 

Church  and  charity  were  given  to  dutifully  and  as  a 
matter  of  course,  just  as  sweeping  day  was  Friday  and 
the  Town  homes  were  boarded  up  in  early  spring  for 
the  annual  transfer  of  household  altars  to  the  Island. 

It  was  safe — and  the  girl  lying  in  the  dark  caught 
her  lips  between  her  teeth  with  a  sharp,  indrawn  breath. 
An  ugly  thought  crouched  at  the  threshold  of  her  mind. 
She  wrould  not  let  it  in,  but  it  was  there  waiting  with 
sardonic  patience — the  subtle,  insidious  "What's  the  use !" 
that  marks  the  first  slight  vibration  of  yielding  barriers. 

The  winds  and  the  waves  and  the  free  things  that  were 
to  her  church  and  creed — the  gods  and  dryads  of  great 
spaces  and  dim  forests  and  austere  mountain  sides — • 
these  seemed  withdrawn  and  far  away.  She  did  not  be- 
long to  them  here  in  this  brawling  City  where  thousands 
fought  frenziedly  just  to  labour  and  keep  the  breath  in 
their  bodies.  And  for  what  ?  What  had  the  long  months 
of  hard  toil  given  her?  Food  and  brief  hours  of  rest 
only  to  enable  her  to  struggle  back  to  her  feet  and  lift 
the  yoke  back  on  galled  shoulders. 

Laughter,  relaxation,  pleasure — of  these  she  knew 
nothing  except  as  memories  fast  dimming.  Toil  that  bore 
with  it  the  terror  of  losing  the  chance  to  toil — the  bitter 
irony  of  this  twisted  her  tight-drawn  lips  in  a  wry  smile. 
Toil  that  was  joyless  she  was  yet  clinging  to  with  des- 
perate fingers.  Toil  that  brought  her  no  promise  of  re- 
lief, that  did  not  build  anything  but  the  daily  plank  from 
uncertainty  to  uncertainty — this  with  its  garnishment  of 
pain  and  flagging  vitality  was  her  portion. 


102  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

Here  were  no  gods  nor  dreams  nor  ideals.  This  was 
but  paying  dogged  tribute  to  brutal  necessity. 

It  was  not  striving  that  climbed  slowly  but  surely  to 
the  stars.  It  was  only  the  bending  of  slave  shoulders 
to  the  City's  twelve-thonged  whip.  She  breathed  the 
dust  of  the  feet  of  an  army  of  slaves  who  sweated  and 
fought  and  suffered  as  she  sweated  and  fought  and 
suffered.  They  stumbled  and  fell  and  were  engulfed, 
but  the  City  spawned  new  slaves  who  scrambled  and 
fought  for  their  places.  It  was  a  Bedlam-labour  where 
cries  and  oaths  and  moans  in  strange  tongues  rose  and 
fell  as  the  merciless  lash  of  starving  belly  and  shivering 
limb  drove  them  on. 

It  was  a  din,  a  horror,  a  shambles,  and  above  it  amused 
men  and  delicate  ladies  looked  on  with  slightly  mocking, 
slightly  bored  eyes,  as  the  patrician  men  and  women  of 
Nero's  amphitheatre  looked  on  where  dust  and  blood 
mingled. 

They  did  not  care  because  they  could  not  understand. 
And  understanding  is  reached  only  by  the  way  of  pain. 

To  those  who  have  not  known  that  Via  Dolorosa,  Life 
does  not  speak.  To  them  there  is  but  a  spectacle  that  they 
see  but  do  not  comprehend.  Its  tragedies  only  look 
vulgar  and  its  sorrows  grotesquely  shallow,  and  its  vir- 
tues overshadowed  by  its  roughness  and  dirt. 

June,  caught  in  its  iron  teeth  like  a  delicate  ermine 
in  a  trap,  struggled  in  all  her  senses  against  its  tyranny. 
The  trap  she  could  see  all  around  her,  with  here  a 
song-bird,  there  a  rat,  there  again  a  sea-gull  breaking  its 
great  wings  in  anguished  astonishment.  It  did  not  dis- 
criminate, this  machine  of  hellish  manufacture,  and  the 
senseless  sacrifice,  the  blood  of  weak  arid  strong,  of  tired 
and  vicious,  of  brave  and  bad — all  this  in  its  vast  and 
complete  stupidity  steeped  her  soul  in  aloes-bitterness. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  103 

From  a  room  at  the  back  the  thin  wail  of  a  child 
came  faintly.  It  was  three  days  old  and  its  mother 
was  the  only  patient  in  the  house.  She  was  a  pretty, 
clinging  sort  of  creature  with  wide,  appealing  eyes  and  a 
weak  chin.  And  though  she  had  come  as  Mrs.  Herman 
Clausen,  she  had  very  soon  told  June  the  whole  story 
of  world-old  trust  and  world-old  betrayal. 

Her  passionate  love  for  her  mother,  whose  fine,  sweet 
face  was  framed  and  on  the  stand  by  her  bed,  redeemed 
her  vacillation  and  delicate  shallowness  somewhat  in 
June's  eyes,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  mother  who  did 
not  know,  June  mothered  the  little  creature  with  pa- 
tience and  tenderness.  The  marriage  that  had  been  al- 
ways put  off  for  elaborately  sufficient  reasons,  was  of 
course  to  take  place  now  as  soon  as  the  young  mother 
was  strong  enough  to  go  to  some  quiet  little  church  that 
Mr.  Clausen  would  select. 

Then  the  date  would  be  given  as  a  year  previous, 
when  wilful  little  Ida  Lake  had  wrung  the  consent  of 
her  parents  to  her  coming  to  the  City  for  a  year's  vocal 
lessons. 

She  had  been  chaperoned  as  much  as  busy  city  people 
have  time  for  chaperoning  independent  young  people 
from  small  towns,  and  consequently  had  not  found  it 
difficult  to  shift  arrangements  and  quarters  till  she  was 
practically  free  from  espionage.  Mr.  Clausen  made  the 
suggestions  and  supervised  the  shifting,  and  while  she 
was  very  much  in  love  with  him,  she  was  also  much  in 
awe,  and  rather  afraid  of  him. 

To  June,  she  was  of  the  Ben  Bolt's  "Sweet  Alice" 
class.  She  wept  with  delight  when  he  gave  her  a  smile 
and  trembled  with  fear  at  his  frown.  And  June  had  a 
large  disdain  for  the  type  in  the  flesh — the  song  you 
could  get  away  from  if  you  had  to. 


104  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

But  she  had  listened  to  the  sobs  and  explanations 
and  rhapsodies,  mingled  in  true  April  fashion,  patiently 
sympathetic,  while  she  wondered  in  weary  amazement 
how  any  normal  man  of  average  intelligence  could  pos- 
sibly endure  a  second  evening  of  her  immature  babbling. 

Mr.  Clausen  had  been  "away  on  some  business  mat- 
ter" and  had  returned  to  the  City  that  evening.  Nora 
had  admitted  him  when  he  called  at  the  house  to  see 
the  childish  mother  and  her  baby,  and  June,  very  weary 
and  disinterested,  would  have  preferred  not  meeting 
him. 

But  some  feverish  symptoms  that  day  had  been  re- 
garded rather  closely  by  the  attending  physician,  and 
he  had  ordered  the  administering  of  a  remedy  every  two 
hours  till  the  patient  went  to  sleep  for  the  night. 

By  the  signal  light  that  flashed  across  the  sky  from  a 
city  tower,  June  saw  that  the  hour  for  the  next  dose 
had  come.  So  with  a  long  sigh,  she  drew  herself  slowly 
to  her  feet  and  going  along  the  silent  hall,  tapped  softly 
at  Mrs.  Clausen's  door.  It  had  been  over  an  hour  since 
she  had  heard  the  child's  weak  cry,  and  the  murmur  of 
voices  was  very  low  in  the  closed  room.  The  deeper 
bass  of  the  man's  voice  had  come  to  June's  unheeding 
ears  steadily — he  seemed  to  have  a  good  deal  to  say,  and 
the  soft  treble. of  June's  patient  broke  in  only  at  long 
intervals  and  then  haltingly. 

At  June's  tap,  the  voices  fell  to  silence  and  the  moment 
was  perceptibly  long  before  the  door  opened.  The  man 
who  drew  to  one  side  with  a  courteous  bow  as  June 
entered,  was  of  medium  height.  June's  incurious  glance 
noted  only  that  he  was  of  the  obviously  "well  groomed" 
class,  that  the  eyes  behind  the  brightly  polished  glasses 
were  rather  close  together  and  the  ears  were  not  as 
close-set  to  the  head  as  they  should  have  been. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  105 

Otherwise,  Mr.  Clausen  was  of  the  familiar,  pleasantly 
mannered  type  that  was  as  inconspicious  as  a  well-chosen 
and  subdued  wall  paper — which  is  the  kind  one  does  not 
see. 

Recognising  him  with  a  grave  bend  of  her  head,  June 
passed  at  once  to  the  side  of  the  bed  where  she  lifted 
a  bottle  and  spoon  from  the  stand. 

"It  is  time  for  your  medicine,  Mrs.  Clausen,"  she  said 
pleasantly.  "And  I  will  give  the  baby  hers.  Is  she 
awake?" 

The  young  mother  lying  flat  on  her  pillows  did  not  reply 
nor  make  any  move  to  assist  as  June  gently  drew  back 
the  wrapping  from  the  tiny  form  at  her  side.  The  silence 
was  oddly  disturbing,  but  June  turned  and  moved  the 
shaded  drop-light  so  that  its  rays  were  directed  on  mother 
and  child. 

"Why,  she  is  sleeping — and  very  soundly,"  she  said, 
bending  over  the  bed. 

"Mrs.  Clausen  wrote  me  that  the  child  was  fretful, 
so  I  brought  a  sleeping  potion  for  it."  The  voice  behind 
her  was  quite  steady  and  quite  expressionless,  but  the 
import  of  its  message,  that  was  neither  in  words  nor 
inflection,  leaped  like  a  narrow  flame  from  the  man's 
mind  to  hers.  Her  eyes  flashed  to  a  strange  bottle,  half 
empty,  on  the  stand  and  from  the  bottle  to  the  child. 

Looking  at  it  with  a  fascination  that  grew  with  every 
thick  pound  of  the  blood  through  her  heart,  she  could 
yet  see  the  white  face  with  its  weak  chin  on  the  pillow — 
the  blue,  watchful  eyes,  the  small,  clenched  hand  in  which 
a  fold  of  the  sheet  was  twisted. 

With  a  superhuman  effort,  June  fought  the  numbness 
that  weighed  her  limbs  as  with  heavy  chains.  Her  mouth 
was  dry,  gritty  as  though  dusted  with  sand,  but  resolutely 
she  drew  the  inner  lip  between  her  teeth  and  ground 


io6  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

upon  it.  The  warm  taste  of  blood  nauseated,  but  she 
bit  again  into  the  flesh  and  a  prickling  in  her  hands 
followed.  Heavily  she  turned  and  faced  the  man  stand- 
ing motionless  behind  her.  He  met  her  look  without 
a  change  of  his  pleasantly  attentive  expression,  but  his 
eyes  held  hers  with  a  significant  eloquence  beyond  all 
words. 

"It  was,  of  course,  an  accident,  you  know!" 

In  the  shaded  light  of  the  room  June  stood  quite 
still,  trying  to  steady  into  some  coherence  the  horror  of 
thoughts  that  whirled  in  a  drunken  sort  of  Carmagnole 
through  her  brain.  And  while  she  stood  there  the  others 
waited,  the  eyes  of  the  man  and  of  the  girl  on  the  bed 
fastened  watchfully  on  her  face,  grown  suddenly  grey- 
white  and  haggardly  old. 

Murder  has  an  ugly  sound  that  the  comfortably  con- 
ventional shrink  from  as  something  that  is  not  only  a 
crime,  but  a  crime  that  cannot  under  any  circumstances 
be  condoned  by  good  society.  Even  the  old-time  fashion 
of  "avenging  one's  honour"  indulged  in  by  suddenly  en- 
lightened husbands  has  quite  gone  out.  Murder  occurs, 
but  it  is  always  vaguely  impersonal  and  associated  chiefly 
with  the  thought  of  large  type  and  the  smell  of  printers' 
ink. 

This  was  murder- — this  little  vial  of  soothing  syrup 
and  the  tiny,  blue-white  face  and  little  wrinkled  fist  that 
the  circle  of  light  from  the  reading  lamp  shone  on.  The 
baby  was  dead  before  it  knew  anything  of  life,  and  the 
problem  of  life  and  death  and  of  relative  values  was 
drumming  in  June's  ears  thunderously.  The  quiet  bed- 
room with  its  litter  of  silver  toilet  trinkets,  its  two  roses 
in  a  slender  crystal  vase,  its  pleasant  clutter  of  magazines 
and  blue  silk  negligee  and  little  blue  silk  "mules"  on  the 
ottoman  beside  the  foot  of  the  bed — into  it  had  entered 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  107 

the  mystery  in  ghastly  guise.  It  was  the  stage  where 
tragedy  and  stealth  looked  with  basilisk  eyes  through  a 
mask  that  man  may  not  raise  and  live.  And  the  creeping 
horror  of  the  unknown — of  the  act  that  had  thrust  a 
life,  small  and  helpless,  into  the  black  void  of  that  Un- 
known— 'seemed  to  stain  blood-red  the  toy  fripperies  be- 
cause they  had  witnessed  murder. 

June,  with  the  blood  taste  in  her  mouth  and  the  sharp 
pain  warring  with  the  recurrent  waves  of  sick  black- 
ness that  threatened  to  overwhelm  her,  reached  out  a 
shaking  hand  and  drew  a  fold  of  the  soft  lambswool 
blanket  over  the  baby's  face.  She  could  not  think  while 
the  light  showed  so  pitilessly  the  pinched  look  that 
Death's  touch  had  left  on  the  tiny  chiselled  nose. 

As  she  covered  the  child,  a  small,  desperate  hand 
clutched  her  skirt. 

"My  mother — she  doesn't  know.  She  mustn't  knew — 
oh,  in  God's  name — in  God's  name ! " 

The  hoarse  whisper  crossed  the  drumming  that  seemed 
to  stun  June's  ears  and  mind.  Murder — it  was  murder, 
and  to  give  the  man  waiting  by  the  door  over  to  the 
law  was  justice.  That  was  what  was  always  done  with 
murderers. 

The  pictured  woman  with  the  fine,  sweet  face — the 
cowering  little  creature  on  the  bed — they,  too,  would  be 
caught  in  the  gin  and  crushed,  but  that  could  not  be 
helped.  The  law  knew  nothing  of  compromise  nor  eva- 
sion. 

Other  fathers  in  the  City — thousands  of  them  yearly — 
merely  deserted  the  child.  It  grew  up  or  starved — on  its 
life,  if  it  lived,  the  stain  of  bastardy.  And  the  father 
was  not  hunted  down  because  he  was  merely  a  deserter, 
not  a  murderer. 

From  under  her  burning  lids  June  saw  beyond  the 


io8  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

vast  army  of  those  left  to  live  in  the  City  slums.  Their 
withered,  unloved,  old-young  faces;  their  hungry,  wise 
eyes ;  their  weary,  wicked  mouths,  she  knew  line  for  line. 
What  gift  was  life  to  them?  What  waited,  but  the  un- 
thinkable things  that  crouched  and  sprang  and  spewed  this 
spawn  of  lust  into  dive  and  brothel  and  pestilence  ward ! 

Her  hand  closed  with  sudden  fierceness  on  the  little 
waxen  hand  and  she  turned  to  the  man  who  watched  her. 

"Go  to  the  Avenue  and  get  a  taxi-cab.  I  will  have 
Mrs.  Clausen  ready  in  ten  minutes." 

The  man  drew  a  long  breath,  then  the  bedroom  door 
opened  and  closed  behind  him. 

Securely  wrapped  in  a  long  cloak,  the  girl-mother  was 
carried  down  the  old-fashioned  walnut  staircase  in  Clau- 
sen's arms.  June  Ferriss  followed,  groping  heavily  along 
the  banister  with  one  hand.  On  her  left  arm  lay  the 
small  shawled  form  of  a  child. 

Out  through  the  old-fashioned  vestibule,  down  the 
brown,  sandstone  steps,  across  the  stone  sidewalk  to  the 
waiting  motor  Clausen  carried  his  slight  burden.  The 
chauffeur  touched  his  cap  and  sympathetically  assisted 
with  rugs  and  cushions.  Then  Clausen  turned. 

"I  can  take  the  baby  now,  Miss  Ferriss.  And  Mrs. 
Clausen  and  I  are  under  deep  obligations  for  your  splendid 
care.  Thank  you  very  much — and  good-night !" 

In  the  light  of  the  motor  lamps  the  chauffeur  saw  the 
lady  smile  as  she  replied  "Good-night!"  But  the  smile 
did  not  reach  her  eyes  and  the  sympathetic  motorist  told 
himself  that  she  was  certainly  "all  in." 

Going  back  up  the  staircase,  June's  knees  doubled  under 
her  twice,  but  she  pulled  herself  desperately  up  to  her 
own  room.  There  she  crumpled  on  the  floor  by  the 
window,  with  one  arm  flung  out  and  grasping  the  sill. 
With  her  head  fallen  forward  on  the  arm  where  the  cool 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  109 

night  air  could  sweep  over  her  face,  she  lay  still  and 
battled  with  the  sickness  of  life  that  at  last  conquered 
and  beat  her  down. 

In  his  room  Mr.  Ferriss  lay  calmly  sleeping,  now,  as 
by  day,  walled  from  her  by  the  mysterious  barrier  the 
mind  had  entrenched  itself  behind.  The  old  house  was 
surcharged  with  the  sadness  of  old  stateliness  fallen  into 
shabbiness  and  neglect.  It  had  outlived  its  generation 
and  its  kind  and  was  in  the  way.  And  now  its  walls 
burned  red  with  a  word  repeated  as  that  on  the  walls  of 
the  prison  where  Robespierre  wandered  restlessly,  read- 
ing the  word  that  accused  and  peering  at  the  phantoms 
in  the  corners. 

She,  June  Ferriss,  had  condoned  the  murder  and  had 
let  the  murderer  go  free.  In  the  abstract  crime  was  a 
matter  that  called  for  seizure  and  punishment.  But  pun- 
ishment has  not  abolished  crime  and  the  threat  of  pun- 
ishment has  not  prevented  it.  Consequently,  punish- 
ment accomplished  no  general  good  and  imprisonment  did 
no  specific  good. 

So  the  question  of  relative  values  rose  out  of  the 
mental  and  physical  chaos,  and  in  the  chaos  June  saw 
the  patient  eyes  in  the  silver  frame;  the  irresponsible, 
suffering  bit  of  thistledown  on  the  bed;  the  baby  saved 
from  the  world's  brand  of  bastardy  and  from  the  world's 
brutality. 

The  man  was  unimportant.  The  men  who  deserted 
the  living  and  suffering  were  not  only  criminals  but 
cowards,  yet  they  were  permitted  to  roam  at  large  and 
breed  their  kind.  This  man  was  a  criminal  but  he  was 
not  a  coward.  "Some  kill  their  loves  when  they  are 
young,  and  some  when  they  are  old — the  kindest  use  a 
knife  because  the  dead  so  soon  grow  cold — "  It  was  a 
criminal  who  wrote  that  in  an  English  prison.  And  to 


no  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

June  Death  and  Life  had  readjusted.  Life  was  punish- 
ment, death  release.  The  baby  was  safe.  The  world's 
brand  of  bastardy  that  awaited  it  at  birth  made  that  world 
more  of  a  criminal,  worse  a  murderer,  than  the  man 
whose  potion  sent  it  from  sleep  to  sleep. 

For  the  world  and  its  stupidities  she  was  learning 
an  amazed  and  immeasurable  contempt.  It  strained  out 
gnats  and  swallowed  camels  with  a  vast  and  self-satisfied 
solemnity  that  defied  all  logic  and  left  the  crudest  analy- 
sis dumb. 

Crouching  by  the  window,  June  listened  to  the  City's 
heavy  and  sullen  monotone.  The  darkness  of  the  room 
crowded  down  on  her,  athrill  with  horror,  and  her  left 
arm  seemed  still  to  ache  with  the  motionless  little  burden 
it  had  just  held.  But  out  of  the  pain  and  weariness 
that  had  beaten  her  down  for  long  and  unrelenting 
months,  the  revolt  of  the  child  of  long  ago  had  battled 
with  dumb  and  bitter  resolve. 

Horror  held  her  senses  and  sanded  her  mouth — horror 
and  weakness  rooted  in  age-old  superstitions  and  igno- 
rance held  her  quaking  under  the  night's  black  wings.  But 
that  "other  woman"  in  the  corner  was  watching  her  with 
derisive  eyes,  and  under  the  steady  gaze,  as  under  the 
stinging  flick  of  a  whip,  a  slow  warmth  of  fighting  blood 
forced  its  way  through  her  fear-palsied  limbs. 

The  "relative  values"  caught  at  suddenly  and  desper- 
ately, had  ceased  dancing  in  firefly  flickers  of  light.  Out 
of  slow  revolt  her  spirit  reached  stubbornly  for  basic 
truths,  pitching  aside  with  the  impatience  of  pain  the 
sophistries  and  makeshifts  that  satisfied  the  mob.  She 
sought  the  lodestar — no  lesser  light  would  do. 

And  seeking  it,  the  hysterical  panic  that  fought  for 
utterance  like  an  East  Side  tenement  Medusa  shrieking 
"Police !"  was  held  by  the  throat. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  in 

Pulling  herselt  up  to  her  knees,  June  leaned  against  the 
window  frame  and  rubbed  the  arm  where  the  dead  baby 
had  lain.  She  was  weary,  sick,  and  burdened  with  the 
weight  of  the  morrow's  responsibilities  and  uncertainty. 
But  of  the  night  and  its  decisions  she  could  find  in  no 
cranny  of  her  mind  a  lurking  stain  of  fear. 

She  had  spared  the  girl  and  the  girl's  mother  and  in  so 
doing  had  defied  the  law.  But  she  paid  herself  no  tribute 
of  sentimental  admiration.  She  had  not  defied  the  law 
because  of  a  romantic  sense  of  mercy  for  two  helpless 
women.  She  had  defied  it  because  of  a  tired  contempt  for 
its  quibbles  and  of  the  bungling  absurdities  of  its  arith- 
metic. 

She  knew  there  were  those  who  saw  its  absurdities  as 
she  did,  but  who  yielded  to  them  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  as  the  easiest  way.  But  this  was  not  her 
way.  The  law  was  huge  and  might  break  her,  perhaps. 
But  it  could  not  now  bend  the  spirit  of  the  little  girl  who 
had  looked  up  into  the  face  of  authority  and  had  said, 
"I  don't  believe  you." 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

A  FEW  streets  down  from  where  June's  hospital  had 
been,  Mrs.  Henry  lived  and  rented  rooms.  In  the 
old-fashioned  house  that  she  had  rented  from  the  days 
when  the  last  of  the  "old  families"  were  moving  out,  the 
rooms  were  wonderfully  high  and  spacious.  White  marble 
mantels  and  elaborately  fluted  cornices  spoke  still  of  by- 
gone grandeur,  but  Mrs.  Henry  had  thriftily  bisected  the 
spacious  rooms  with  matched-board  partitions,  painted, 
the  two-out-of-one  renting  readily  to  down-town  patrons. 

As  Mrs.  Henry  was  scrupulously  neat  and  her  rooms 
made  up  in  cleanliness  for  the  bisected  grandeur,  she 
was  well  patronised  by  "steadies"  as  well  as  seasonal 
roomers  who  faithfully  returned. 

When  June  gave  up  the  hospital,  the  sale  of  its  con- 
tents paid  outstanding  bills  and  what  the  landlord  de- 
manded for  the  balance  of  the  lease.  Nora  went  home, 
and  as  kindly  Mrs.  Henry  had  one  section  of  a  room 
vacant,  she  took  Mr.  Ferriss  and  promised  to  look  after 
him  till  some  arrangements  could  be  made. 

June  was  ill  and  realised  that  a  few  days'  absolute 
quiet  was  a  necessity.  And  she  found  it  in  St.  Michaels 
"Residence  for  Ladies"  which  was  in  connection  with  a 
down-town  convent,  a  stone's  throw  from  Mrs.  Henry's. 

Pagan  though  she  was,  she  yet  had  frequently  attended 
the  services  in  the  little  chapel  which  connected  the  con- 
vent, facing  on  one  street,  with  the  Residence  which 
faced  on  the  next.  The  stately  calm  of  the  Latin  ritual, 
the  dimly  lit  chapel  with  the  soft  candle  flame  touching 
the  altar  into  subdued  radiance,  the  bowed  forms  of  tired 

112 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  113 

business  women  praying  in  the  stillness — all  this  soothed 
and  rested  her.  In  that  atmosphere  of  detachment,  of 
the  peace  of  devout  faith,  she  could  get  away  for  an 
hour  from  the  City  life  that  dinned  its  pain  and  prob- 
lems into  her  ears  unceasingly. 

A  receptive  quality  that  she  possessed,  that  sympathised 
and  never  questioned,  had  always  brought  out  the  life- 
complexities  and  burdens  of  her  patients.  Her  own  anxie- 
ties were  as  guarded  a  part  of  her  as  had  been  the  small 
room  in  which  she  shut  herself  and  her  weariness  when 
she  dared  take  the  time.  It  would  have  been  as  impos- 
sible for  her  to  even  touch  upon  her  inner  life  to  others 
as  it  would  have  been  to  expose  a  wounded  breast  to 
strange  and  curious  eyes. 

But  she  gave  herself  to  them  without  heeding  that 
she  gave  without  receiving  back  again,  and  when  vitality 
ran  low  and  exhaustion  laid  its  heavy  hand  on  body  and 
soul,  the  two  years  of  convent  life  that  had  marked 
part  of  her  girlhood  called  her,  as  a  homing  pigeon,  back 
to  the  convent's  quietude  as  to  sanctuary. 

So  the  nuns  had  grown  to  know  the  girl  with  tired 
eyes  that  smiled  at  them  with  humorous  affection,  and 
the  Mother  Superior's  "Bon  soir,  ma  fille!"  always 
greeted  her  with  very  genuine  interest. 

The  convent  itself  consisted  of  three  one-time  private 
homes  in  the  solid  city  block,  but  the  Residence  was 
modern  and  ten  stories  high.  And  on  one  of  the  highest 
floors  June  Ferriss  thankfully  retreated  to  an  immaculate 
little  room  with  a  narrow  iron  bed  and  with  quiet  grey- 
tinted  walls. 

The  City  swam  in  panoramic  distances  far  below.  Its 
noises  beat  upward  but  faintly  to  the  height  of  June's 
window,  and  she  felt  safe,  though  her  breast  ached 


114  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

as  that  of  a  spent  runner  fallen  within  protecting  walls 
and  craving  desperately  an  hour's  respite. 

For  her,  Life  was  already  writing  itself  in  heavy  char- 
acters and  the  days  unrolled  new  things  that  cut  and  cor- 
roded into  her  consciousness  relentlessly.  And  the  easier 
path  always  lay  open  and  inviting  did  she  wish  to  turn 
to  it.  But  a  touch  of  stoic  temper  in  her  held  her  to 
the  way  of  pain  that  meant  Vision,  even  though  sight 
must  come  through  torment. 

And  so  the  easier  path  tempted  little  and  she  gave 
herself  only  the  needed  hour  for  muscles  overstrained  and 
for  heart  and  nerves  twisted  like  a  violin  string  to  the 
breaking  key. 

A  long  day  she  lay  on  the  narrow  bed,  inert  and  almost 
unthinking.  Under  the  quiet  of  reaction,  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  adrift  and  anchorless  was  dulled  to  a  some- 
thing unimportant  and  to  be  thrust  back  for  future 
consideration.  The  mind  recognised  a  condition  threaten- 
ing and  imminent  but  refused  to  care.  Mind  and  limbs 
were  alike  motionless.  They  drifted  high  above  the 
world  and  its  affairs,  attuned  only  to  the  long  shreds 
of  torn,  still  cloud  that  stretched  across  the  fathomless 
grey-blue  of  the  sky. 

From  under  her  heavy  lids  she  could  see  the  crucifix 
on  the  wall,  and  as  the  hours  of  the  long  day  slowly 
passed  and  the  weariness  lifted  a  little,  her  thought 
stirred  and  turned  itself  languidly  toward  the  sculptured 
Agony. 

What  had  it  done,  after  all  ? 

Beautiful  as  the  life  of  self-immolation  was,  tragic 
as  was  its  close,  in  what  was  the  Man  so  supremely  the 
Man  of  Sorrows?  He  was  unknown  till  the  age  of 
thirty,  living  a  life  of  tranquil  thrift.  Then  for  a  brief 
three  years  he  lived  as  innumerable  mendicant  friars 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  115 

live,  relying  upon  the  hospitality  that  could  always  be 
found  for  holy  men — a  "homelessness"  that  causes  no 
comment  even  at  the  present  time. 

He  was  a  revolutionist,  an  iconoclast,  and  the  exalta- 
tion of  fanaticism  swept  him  on  from  defiance  to  de- 
fiance, till  it  clashed  with  the  Law,  slow  to  permit  change, 
and  against  its  stone  barrier  the  flame  of  his  purpose 
blazed  high,  only  to  recoil  upon  itself  and  flare  out 
into  darkness. 

If  he  was  divine,  his  divinity  was  spiritual  armour  and 
the  prescience  of  omniscience  saw  the  Plan  and  saw  the 
fulfilment  of  the  Plan. 

If  he  was  human,  his  human  sufferings  were  brief 
and  for  the  most  part  impersonal.  Human  love  and 
desire  passed  him  by.  He  loved  the  world,  not  individ- 
uals. He  was  the  inspired  Reformer,  bent  upon  con- 
quering powers  of  evil.  He  could  not  be  reached  by 
fear  nor  price  for  the  same  reason  that  the  Nihilist  can- 
not be  curbed  nor  bought.  In  both  burned  the  fire  of 
Martyrdom,  more  intoxicating  than  the  essence  of  a 
whole  world's  wine-press. 

Martyrdom  does  not  suffer.  In  the  body's  pangs,  the 
clamouring  spirit  finds  its  wings  and  soars.  And  the 
"temptation"  was  as  absurd  as  it  would  be  to  offer 
paste  jewels  to  India's  Emperors.  The  world  and  the 
"glories"  thereof,  offered  the  Son  of  a  God !  This  poor 
little  sorrow-ridden  sphere  offered  Infinity ! 

"And  the  tyranny  and  the  sins  and  the  brutalities  in 
your  name  ever  since,  O  Christus !" — June  Ferriss  looked 
at  the  drooping  head  and  the  closed  eyes  and  the  "Lips 
that  we  stopt  with  dust."  "Do  you  see  and  know? 
We  have  been  a  Christian  world  for  nineteen  hundred 
years  and  how  far  have  we  climbed?  Do  you  see  the 
labour  of  little  children  ?  Do  you  see  the  magnificence  and 


n6  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

luxury  wrought  out  of  their  toil  ?  Do  you  see  the  temples 
rearing  dazzling  arches  to  you,  built  with  the  sweated 
pennies  wrested  by  fear  from  the  hands  of  labouring 
women  and  weaklings  ?  Do  you  know  how  the  strong  and 
the  shrewd  have  made  of  your  name  a  Thing  of  dis- 
honour and  theft,  of  inquisition  and  murder?" 

The  Nails  ?  Why,  they  brought  the  exquisite  lethargy 
of  death!  What  was  that  brief  agony  compared  to 
the  long  agony  that  bent  to  the  blood-sweat  of  the  tread- 
mill, spurred  on  by  the  hunger  cry  of  children,  the  fright- 
ened moan  of  dependent  age!  Despised  and  rejected  of 
Men?  Why  held  as  unique  in  that?  Was  not  all  lead- 
ership marked  by  the  wolves  of  suspicion  and  treachery 
and  ingratitude?  The  Interpreter  to  a  world  of  the 
wishes  of  Jehovah?  And  the  thousand  interpretations 
since  of  the  Interpreter! 

What  a  huge  jumble  of  contradictions  it  all  was!  If 
out  of  the  shifting  pieces  there  had  evolved  the  smallest 
indication  of  a  Plan,  toward  which  uncertainty  might 
reach  and  find  comfort,  the  obscurities  could  be  accepted 
on  faith.  But  the  nineteen  centuries  had  only  stumbled 
from  guesswork  to  guesswork,  while  controversy  and 
dispute  had  offended  logic  and  reason  and  had  wearied 
those  who  cried  for  peace. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

EVENING    brought  a  canopy  of  purple,  powdered 
thickly  with  stars,  and  June,  leaning  on  the  wall 
that  encircled  the  roof  of  the  Residence,  looked  from  its 
tender  serenity  down  on  the  rivers  of  yellow  lights  that 
marked  the  City  streets. 

Beyond  were  the  moving  lights  of  ferry  boats  bearing 
their  restless  thousands  away  and  bearing  their  other 
restless  thousands  back. 

And  beyond  the  river  again,  the  flame  of  other  city 
streets  threw  its  yellow  glow  to  the  stars. 

Back  of  June  black-habited  nuns  paced  softly,  their 
robes  flowing  in  the  breeze  that  swept  in  from  the  ocean 
lying  just  beyond  the  yellow  radiance,  their  rosaries 
clicking  gently  as  they  swayed  from  clasped  fingers,  while 
their  lips  soundlessly  recited  the  offices.  In  the  dusk  and 
wonderful  stillness  of  the  roof  that  seemed  so  close  to 
the  "innumerable  company  of  the  stars,"  weary  girls  and 
women  sat  silently  or  spoke  in  hushed  tones. 

The  evening  brought  its  respite  from  work  and  from 
the  problems  that  must  be  lifted  with  the  coming  day,  and 
the  great  calm  of  night  offered  its  benison  to  life  and 
its  "fitful  fever." 

"And  what  is  it  for— all  this,  Sister  St.  John?"  said 
June  as  a  tall  nun  with  sombre  eyes  joined  her  at  the  wall. 
Sister  St.  John  looked  down  at  the  world  she  had  re- 
nounced. 

"It  is  just  the  school,  June.  They  want  the  world's 
noise  and  toys  and  play,  but  with  it  they  have  to  learn 
through  discipline.  It  is  the  only  way." 

117 


n8  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"But  it  is  a  cruel  way,"  objected  June  slowly.  "Doesn't 
the  Schoolmaster  ever  grow  sick  of  the  cruelty  ?  Because 
so  many  of  them  never  do  learn,  you  know.  They  just 
battle  awhile  like  wild  animals,  and  then — go  down." 

"They  have  their  choice."  The  tall  nun's  face  was 
cold  and  stern  where  it  gleamed  palely  from  its  white 
bands  and  long  black  veil.  "They  want  the  world  and 
its  vanities  and  cling  to  it  as  rebellious  children  cling 
to  a  dangerous  plaything.  They  are  free  agents.  They 
can  give  up  and  seek  ways  of  peace,  but  they  will  not." 

"Free?"  June  shook  her  head  grimly.  "Who  of  us 
is  free?  Why,  before  we  are  born  men  and  women  of 
our  blood  bind  us  with  their  passions  and  prejudices.  In 
babyhood  and  childhood  every  thought  is  trimmed  and 
pruned  and  coloured  for  us  by  those  older  and  stronger 
than  we  are.  School  passes  us  on  to  the  printed  prin- 
ciples of  people  dead  and  forgotten.  Our  mind  is  there 
shaped  into  the  groove  made  by  other  minds.  Good  and 
great,  or  bigoted  and  narrow — generous  and  kind,  or 
mean  and  cruel — the  plastic  mind  of  the  baby  takes  the 
imprint  which  the  years  hammer  into  permanence.  Free  ? 
What  chance  has  it  to  be  free  ?" 

"The  soul  is  free,"  replied  the  nun  sternly.  "The  mind 
is  but  the  outer  temple." 

"The  mind  is  the  window  of  the  outer  temple,  ma 
sccur,"  June  corrected.  "Do  you  think  that  blindly  strug- 
gling swarm  of  human  maggots  away  over  there  could 
be  made  to  see  through  its  foul,  grimed  windows,  hermet- 
ically sealed  and  barred  by  ignorance?" 

"The  ignorance  is  unlocked  by  the  schools,"  reminded 
Sister  St.  John. 

"The  ignorance  has  but  its  rust  scraped  by  the  schools !" 
said  June.  "They  learn  arithmetic  from  the  blackboard 
and  iniquity  from  each  other.  They  learn  the  barest  smat- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  119 

tering  of  the  three  R's  and  they  are  then  pitched  out 
into  that  torrent  down  there,  to  swim  in  a  handicap,  be- 
fore they  have  learned  a  stroke  intelligent  enough  to  carry 
them  through  a  city  puddle." 

"You  forget  Holy  Church,  June — it  watches  over  its 
children,  always !" 

"Holy  Church  only  has  its  handful  to-day,  Sister  St. 
John.  It  no  longer  reaches.  It  has  lost  its  hold." 

The  two  women,  ascetic  and  rebel,  strangely  assorted 
yet  strangely  attracted  and  very  good  friends,  looked  out 
over  the  City  in  silence.  Beneath  the  band  of  white  linen 
the  eyes  of  the  religieuse  smouldered  with  the  fires  of 
thwarted  but  unquenched  womanhood. 

June,  with  the  keen  insight  of  understanding,  felt  in  her 
own  soul  the  exquisite  pain  of  that  pale  mask  of  peace 
moulded  finely  over  unsleeping  protest. 

"My  peace  I  give  unto  you!"  June  saw  the  still  woman 
beside  her  face  down  on  the  floor  of  her  cell,  battling 
for  that  outer  semblance  that  lay  like  chilled  lava  over 
molten  passions  that  no  church  nor  vow  can  change. 
Peace?  The  peace  of  the  exhausted  flagellant — of  the 
hair-shirt  penitent — of  the  spent  body  that  climbs  on 
bruised  knees  the  Sancta  Scala,  the  sacred  stair  of  prayers 
— is  that  peace  ? 

Peace? — that  builds  its  sarcophagi  over  hearts  quiver- 
ing with  the  agony  of  hunger — on  arms  beating  against 
the  stone  that  keeps  them  empty — on  lips  thirsting  with 
the  Tantalus-thirst  for  other  lips  brought  close  in  dreams 
that  tortured  and  withheld — this  was  peace? 

"Ma  sccur — ma  socur — I"  June's  hand  closed  on  the 
white  hands  clenched  on  the  sacred  beads. 

"Ma  sccur !"  It  was  just  breathed  on  the  stillness 

that  hung  above  the  monotone  of  the  City,  far  below. 

The  nun  turned  her  head  slowly,  the  folds  of  the 


120  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

black  veil  falling  heavily  back  from  the  face,  marble- 
white  in  the  dim  light  of  the  stars.  And  the  eyes  of 
the  women  met. 

Smouldering,  aching,  the  burden  of  the  world  and  the 
burden  of  the  Church  crossed  their  swords  over  the 
unending  protest  of  womanhood.  Turn  where  and  how 
they  would  the  iron  yoke  of  pain  waited,  crushing  down 
on  tender,  shrinking  shoulders. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

ON  the  recommendation  of  a  confrere  of  Dr.  Moore's 
a  large  publishing  house  offered  June  a  position  on 
their  editorial  staff.  They  were  working  on  a  new  edition 
of  a  medical  dictionary  and  June's  medical  knowledge  en- 
abled her  to  fill  the  place. 

In  the  editorial  room  about  thirty  silent  people  bent 
over  desks  and  typewriters,  slowly  compiling  the  huge  list 
of  medical  words  and  terms  in  use.  Here  June  was  in- 
stalled. 

A  woman  constantly  moved  from  desk  to  desk,  picking 
up  carefully  stacked  piles  of  white  paper,  each  sheet — 
of  notepaper  size — bearing  a  word  with  its  accompanying 
data. 

The  piles  she  gathered  she  replaced  with  piles  to  be 
copied  on  typewriters,  and  this  copying  could  only  be 
done  by  those  familiar  with  medicine,  as  errors  were  to  be 
caught  and  the  word  returned  to  the  chief  for  correction. 

Thankful  for  the  opening,  June  had  hastily  rented  a 
tiny  three-room  shelter  in  an  old-fashioned  section  of 
the  City  that  had  stranded  midway  between  its  wholesale 
and  retail  localities. 

The  section  had  a  mixed  population  that  included  all 
classes  from  teamsters  to  artists.  Multitudinous  in  types, 
tastes  and  habits,  there  was  frank  unanimity  in  the  one 
great  need — economy. 

June's  three  rooms  were  in  a  building  that  held  ten 
families.  The  janitress  made  up  in  good  nature  what 
she  lacked  in  cleanliness,  and  agreed  to  see  to  Mr.  Ferriss's 
few  requirements  for  a  small  consideration.  She — by 

121 


122  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

name  Mrs.  Miggs — lived  in  rooms  of  perpetual  darkness, 
modified  by  two  very  economical  gas  jets,  in  the  base- 
ment. It  would  have  been  the  cellar  in  the  country 
house,  but  people  do  not  live  in  cellars,  so  the  City  side- 
steps the  objection  by  its  designation  of  its  subterranean 
homes  as  "the  basement."  And  everybody  is  satisfied. 

Mrs.  Miggs  probably  started  out  her  married  life  by 
being  clean,  but  a  chronic  weariness  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Miggs  left  the  major  part  of  the  bread-winning  to  his 
wife,  so  she  accepted  the  situation  with  cheerful  phi- 
losophy and  regarded  the  world  with  lively  interest  from 
where  she  spent  most  of  the  time,  which  was  sitting  on  the 
area  steps. 

The  sidewalk  and  street  gave  her  daily  its  passing  show. 
Other  "janitress  ladies"  in  the  block  spent  their  days  on 
their  area  steps  within  easy  talking  distance.  Street 
pedlars  and  street  pianos  sang  their  wares  and  played 
their  airs  and  the  precocious  children  in  much-soiled 
raiment  danced  with  astonishing  grace  and  abandon  on 
the  sidewalk. 

Uptown  where  rents  were  high  neighbours  were  un- 
heard of.  Nobody  knew  anybody  but  their  own  particular 
friends. 

But  that  was  not  so  where  Mrs.  Miggs  and  her  sister- 
hood presided  over  the  tenants  entrusted  to  their  care. 
True,  the  Avenue  barred  off  interest  in  any  but  those  in 
the  block,  but  the  block  supplied  all  the  entertainment 
one  could  keep  track  of. 

New  arrivals  were  scanned,  their  lares  and  penates 
appraised,  their  occupation  communicated  from  area  to 
area,  and  themselves  scientifically  "placed"  within  an 
hour  after  their  arrival.  As  they  arrived  and  departed 
frequently  this  was  an  unfailing  and  delightful  excite- 
ment. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  123 

To  the  right  of  Mrs.  Miggs'  area  was  Tom  Sing's 
Chinese  laundry.  The  police  visited  Sing's  occasionally  to 
raid  it  for  opium  outfits  or  protect  it  from  window-break- 
ing small  boys,  as  the  case  might  be.  And  whether  the 
case  was  raid  or  protection,  Sing  had  to  go  down  into 
the  pockets  of  his  Oriental  trousers  to  treat  the  official 
itching  palm,  which  he  always  did  promptly  but  pro- 
fanely. 

Across  the  hall  from  the  Ferriss  flat — the  rent  was  too 
cheap  to  be  an  apartment — was  a  free  lance  artist,  behind 
them  was  an  Irish  teamster  and  under  them  a  waiter 
of  an  uptown  cafe. 

They  all  greeted  June  cordially  and  democratically,  and 
she  adapted  herself  to  the  new  environment  with  de- 
termined, if  rather  grim  amusement. 

A  feature  of  the  new  regime  to  which  she  found  the 
adapting  a  serious  problem,  however,  was  the  question 
of  income.  As  a  member  of  the  editorial  staff  of  one 
of  the  largest  publishing  houses  in  the  country,  she  re- 
ceived ten  dollars  per  week.  Like  the  teachers  and  pro- 
fessors of  both  the  old  and  the  new  world,  she  found 
academic  proficiency  of  small  monetary  value. 

As  a  body  of  people  her  co-workers  were  quiet,  refined, 
sad  and  shabby.  They  bowed  to  her  and  smiled  when 
they  met  in  the  morning,  and  when  they  left.  During  the 
day  no  one  spoke  except  when  it  was  necessary,  and  then 
briefly  and  in  a  low  tone. 

And  the  day  was  endless. 

Bending  over  the  interminable  piles  of  papers  that 
grew  and  lessened,  grew  and  lessened,  with  unbroken 
monotony,  but  that  never  ended  and  never  would  end, 
June  began  to  wonder  in  affright  if  endurance,  too,  could 
be  mechanically  ordered  and  fixed. 

The  dull  pain  in  her  side  began  to  bore  deeper,  and 


124  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

as  the  appallingly  long  hours  crawled  by  in  slow  and  mad- 
dening minutes  to  the  day's  close  that  sometimes  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  to  come,  her  face  would  flush,  her 
arms  twitch,  and  driven  by  intolerable  nervousness  she 
would  leave  her  desk,  go  out  to  the  hall  and  hurry  to  a 
window  where  she  would  lean  out  for  long  breaths  of  air. 

This  she  found  of  common  occurrence  among  her  com- 
panions. No  one  heeded  nor  looked  up  when  some  one 
quietly  rose  and  left  the  room.  But  June  became  familiar 
with  the  sallow,  thin  faces — with  the  dull  mottled  flush 
of  tormented  nerves,  with  the  eyes,  strained,  glassy  and 
weary,  that  looked  unseeingly  out  over  the  City  roofs. 

The  labour  of  the  editorial  room  was  the  labour  of 
Sisyphus.  They  rolled  the  stone  up  the  hill  hour  by  hour, 
but  they  never  reached  the  top  and  they  knew  they  never 
would.  There  was  no  cohesion  nor  coherence  in  the 
words  that  trailed  jerkily  across  their  desks.  They  were 
not  related,  and  they  built  nothing  and  led  nowhere. 

But  the  source  was  as  exhaustless  as  the  task  was 
exhausting,  and  as  that  inexorable,  meaningless  stream 
of  words  chained  the  hours  into  days  and  days  into  weeks, 
June  began  to  suffer  as  those  imprisoned  beneath  the  con- 
stant drip  of  water  used  to  suffer,  till  they  went  mad. 

And  under  this  rain  of  pebbles  that  beat  across  her  brain 
with  no  respite,  the  anxiety  of  the  week's  expense  gnawed 
always  like  a  hidden  rat.  The  furniture  bought  for 
the  three  rooms  was  costing  two  dollars  a  week.  This 
left  her  eight.  As  yet  she  had  not  needed  to  buy  clothes 
for  herself  nor  for  Mr.  Ferriss.  But  even  without 
that  item,  the  eight  would  not  reach,  strain  and  strive 
as  she  would.  Their  table  was  pitifully  light — >Mr.  Fer- 
riss never  ate  much  and  June  was  too  tired  to  be  hungry. 
But  bare  necessities — food,  rent,  light,  and  fuel  bought 
from  Tony,  the  Italian,  on  the  corner  for  ten  cents  a 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  125 

basket — these  devoured  the  eight  dollars  avidly,  and 
each  week  saw  a  trinket  sacrificed  for  a  pawn-ticket  to 
make  up  the  deficit. 

Was  this  the  reward  of  labour?  Not  rest,  nor  security. 
Instead,  toil  that  burdened  to  the  breaking  point,  weari- 
ness too  weary  for  sleep,  and  the  noisome  breath  of  the 
wolf  at  the  door  where  slowly  ebbing  strength  kept  its 
desperate  arm  thrust  through  the  hasps. 

She  dared  not  rest  nor  pause.  The  City  had  become  a 
ravening  horror — a  monster  that  battened  on  weak  girls 
and  worn  women.  The  auger  in  her  side  was  agony, 
but  the  City  was  used  to  agony,  it  was  such  a  common 
thing.  And  no  one  had  time  to  care. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

ONE  morning  as  she  left  her  own  little  flat  and  went 
down  the  stairs  she  saw  the  wife  of  the  cafe  waiter 
standing  at  the  front  door.  The  waiter,  named  Martin, 
lived  with  his  wife  and  baby  in  one  room  where  Mrs. 
Martin  cooked  their  meals  on  a  one-burner  gas  plate 
which  connected  by  a  long  tube  to  the  gas-bracket  on  the 
wall. 

The  door  of  the  room  stood  open  and  June  could  see 
the  wire  extension  couch  with  its  disordered  bedding  in 
the  corner ;  the  centre  table  with  a  granite  pail  for  steep- 
ing tea  and  a  few  cheap  dishes  with  some  crusts  of  bread. 
On  the  wall  hung  a  few  limp-looking  clothes  and  on 
the  window  a  limp  curtain  of  Nottingham  lace,  badly 
worn. 

The  room  was  hopelessly  dreary  and  June  looked  from 
it  to  the  thin  figure  with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  leaning 
against  the  doorway.  She,  too,  looked  hopelessly  dreary, 
and  June  paused  beside  her  with  her  hand  on  the  shoulder 
that  showed  sharply  under  the  cheap  calico  wrapper. 

"Well,  honey,  how  is  my  baby?" 

She  spoke  cheerfully  but  her  eyes  narrowed  as  the 
woman  turned  a  face  thin  and  very  white  and  looked 
at  her  dully.  It  had  still  a  wan  sort  of  prettiness,  but 
scant  food  and  bad  air  were  blotting  the  prettiness  out 
fast.  And  this  morning  June  saw  that  her  upper  lip  was 
bruised  and  had  been  bleeding. 

"The  baby?  She's  been  bad  again,  Miss  June."  The 
mother  looked  down  at  the  waxen  little  face  with  its 

126 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  127 

bluish  shadows.  The  baby  was  asleep  and  seemed  hardly 
to  breathe. 

"Business  was  poor  at  the  cafe  last  night  and  Joe 
didn't  make  no  more  tips  than  enough  to  pay  the  head- 
waiter.  The  baby  fretted  all  night  and  when  Joe  got  home 
at  two  o'clock  she  cried  harder.  We  were  out  o'  milk, 
you  know.  Joe  walked  with  her,  but  she  just  kep'  on 
that  wailin'  an'  at  last  he  threw  her  at  me  on  the  bed  an' 
grabbed  his  hat  an'  went  out.  Her  head  hit  me  on  the 
mouth." 

Mrs.  Martin  spoke  with  dreary  indifference  and  her 
eyes  were  dry  as  she  looked  at  the  baby. 

"She  won't  live  long,  I  guess.  An'  I  suppose  it's  a  good 
thing.  This  ain't  no  kind  of  a  world  for  babies.  They 
don't  have  a  chance." 

June  sped  upstairs  and  hastily  gathered  up  milk,  rolls 
and  two  eggs.  Hurrying1  down  again,  she  gave  them  to 
the  dull-eyed  woman  at  the  door  and,  already  late,  has- 
tened to  the  publishing  house. 

The  procession  of  disconnected  words  trailed  over  her 
desk,  and  hour  after  hour  June  copied  them  on  the  ma- 
chine. Sternly,  relentlessly,  her  mind  had  to  focus  on  the 
particular  transcribing,  switching  jerkily  from  one  ob- 
scure word  and  derivation  and  definition  to  another.  But 
back  of  the  work  lay  the  wax-like  face  of  the  baby  with  its 
starved  blue  lips.  And  back  of  the  baby's  face  in  phantom 
perspective  she  saw  herself  with  bare  shoulders  and  soft 
laces  in  the  light  of  rose-shaded  candles,  with  other  smil- 
ing faces  around  her  and  obsequious  black-clad  waiters 
gliding  here  and  there  with  silver-necked  bottles  wrapped 
in  satin  damask. 

As  life  was  a  gamble,  so  then,  was  labour  becoming 
a  gamble.  One  did  not  earn  one's  bread  by  the  sweat  of 
the  brow.  The  sweat  of  labour  did  not  guarantee  the 


128  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

bread  any  more.  The  labour  cannot  always  be  found  and 
June  was  now  accustomed  to  the  shabby  groups  of  girls 
and  women  she  passed  mornings,  clustered  around  narrow 
entrances  to  tall  buildings  where  hung  the  familiar  signs 
— "No  more  help  wanted." 

The  labour  cannot  always  be  found  and  even  when  it 
could  be  found,  the  bread  was  uncertain.  The  waiter 
Martin,  for  instance,  was  short  on  tips  because  it  had  been 
a  stormy  night.  So  he  had  nothing  left  after  he  had  paid 
the  head-waiter  for  the  privilege  of  serving  patrons  of 
the  cafe. 

The  head-waiter  was  only  paid  a  nominal  sum  because 
of  the  rake-off  perquisites  from  his  staff  of  underlings. 
And  the  smiling,  anxious-eyed  manager  was  not  a  slave 
driver.  In  fact  he  was  a  very  decent  and  humane  sort  of 
individual.  But  in  his  safe  was  a  thick  ledger  that  carried 
a  steadily  lengthening  row  of  figures  that  represented 
dinners  and  theatre  suppers,  and  attached  to  them  names 
very  familiar  in  the  newspaper  columns  devoted  to  the 
doings  of  the  smart  set  of  the  City.  And  after  a  great 
many  of  these  entries  there  was  the  word  "unpaid." 

So  from  the  gorgeous  satin-draped  and  palm-decked 
background  that  so  enhanced  the  charm  of  richly  gowned 
women  and  the  dignity  of  well-groomed  men  June's 
sub-conscious  mind  ran  down  the  gamut  to  the  baby  dying 
in  the  room  under  hers. 

Joe  Martin  wasn't  bad.  He  was  not  only  a  pretty 
good  waiter  but  a  pretty  good  father.  But  he  was  not 
crooked  enough — or  maybe  clever  enough — to  "knock 
down"  systematically  as  most  of  the  waiters  did  when 
there  was  a  chance  to  escape  detection,  and  so  he  only 
had  the  tips  that  came  to  him  legitimately  to  depend 
upon.  And  that  meant  that  now  and  then  food  was 
scarce  in  the  Martin  home. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  129 

Mrs.  Martin  had  helped  some  as  a  pantry  maid  till 
the  baby  came,  but  after  that  she  had  internal  trouble 
that  made  her  faint  at  inopportune  times. 

June  was  hearing  a  good  deal  about  internal  trouble 
and  terror  of  that  inopportune  faint  that  meant  betrayal 
to  lynx-eyed  foremen  and  foreladies  and  other  awe- 
inspiring  personages  of  authority.  The  auger  that  bored 
into  her  own  body  brought  home  to  her  with  keen  under- 
standing woman's  double  burden  of  labour  and  pain.  And 
recently  she  had  begun  to  notice  that  she,  too,  had  joined 
the  ranks  of  the  "cheerful  liars."  When  the  chief  of 
the  editorial  room  would  look  at  the  white  streak  that 
had  supplanted  the  rose-brown  Island  tan  on  her  cheek 
and  enquire,  "How  are  you,  Miss  Ferriss?" — Miss  Fer- 
riss  was  invariably  "Splendid,  thank  you,  Mr.  Lane !" 

With  Mrs.  Martin,  however,  the  game  was  up,  and 
failing  the  trained  nurse  and  specialist  and  year  abroad 
that  her  case  would  have  required  had  her  husband  sat, 
instead  of  served,  in  the  golden  background  described,  she 
could  only  drag  weakly  around  the  shabby  room  and  try 
to  "take  a  nap,"  with  Bedlam  spilling  in  on  her  from  the 
shabby  street  and  the  fumes  of  mingled  steam  and  opium 
floating  to  her  from  Tom  Sing's.  The  fumes  and  the 
Bedlam  made  her  very  dizzy  and  very  sick  at  her  stomach, 
as  they  did  June,  but  she  was  tenement  born  and  so 
started  with  a  resigned  philosophy  that  did  not  question, 
where  June  battled  desperately  to  wrest  philosophy  from 
books  and  found  it  cold. 

Medicine,  with  all  its  stately  array  of  Latin  mysteries, 
trailed  steadily  across  June's  desk  as  the  long  day  waxed 
and  waned,  but  what  good  was  the  whole  great  school 
of  medicine  to  Joe  Martin's  baby?  The  big  publishing 
house  and  the  big  dictionaries  balanced  their  majesty  with 
that  of  the  big  universities  of  medicine  and  the  men 


130  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

with  big  names  who  delivered  profound  lectures  therein. 

But  the  soft  little  face  with  the  tender  lips  grown 
blue  and  no  longer  "wailin'  "  filled  June's  horizon  just 
then.  The  ponderous  tomes  and  the  ponderous  gentle- 
men were  too  late.  Of  what  use  expensive  knowledge 
when  the  baby  is  dead?  The  screw  that  was  loose  was 
farther  back  in  the  scheme  of  things.  If  babies  die  wailin' 
for  a  little  milk,  and  girls  and  women  develop  nerves 
and  internal  troubles  through  labour  too  long  and  too 
arduous,  why  not  hunt  the  loose  screw  that  feeds  hospital 
and  morgue,  instead  of  building  new  'Varsities  and  land- 
scape gardening  the  campus  ? 

At  the  back  of  the  editorial  room  was  a  long  table  at 
which  the  "Alphebetizers"  sat.  These  were  young  girls 
who  sat  on  hardwood  chairs  in  the  silent  room  all  day 
long,  and  sorted  papers  into  their  proper  order  accord- 
ing to  the  alphabet. 

Young  faces,  but  strained  with  the  unbroken  suppres- 
sion of  the  stillness  and  the  inaction  of  young  and  rest- 
less limbs.  Their  heads  constantly  lifted  from  the  mo- 
notonous task  and  June  noted  in  each  face  the  startled,  in- 
stinctively protesting  eyes  that  swept  across  the  room 
with  its  many  desks  and  stooping  figures — eyes  that  grew 
rebellious,  then  piteously  baffled  and  then  dull,  as  they 
read  submission  in  the  silence  and  the  bowed  heads,  and 
turned  draggingly  back  to  their  work. 

The  baby  and  the  young  girls,  and  the  sad  and  shabby 
editorial  staff  and  the  waiter — they  did  not  fit  somehow 
with  the  superb  framed  lithograph  of  a  Romanesque 
group  of  edifices  dedicated  to  "research"  that  hung  over 
the  chief's  desk.  They  were  close  and  very  real  and  their 
need  seemed  urgent,  while  the  lofty  corridors  of  learning 
with  their  costly  scientific  equipment — admirable,  of 
course! — seemed  cold  and  distant. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  131 

When  June  reached  home  that  night  the  baby  was  dead. 
Joe  had  gone  to  work — the  gentlefolk  who  sat  had  to  be 
served  whether  babies  died  or  not  and  Joe  had  a  small 
matter  to  settle  with  the  undertaker  around  on  the 
Avenue. 

Mrs.  Martin  was  not  crying.  She  lay  on  the  bed  with 
her  arm  over  the  baby  and  stared  at  the  large  pattern 
of  the  paper  on  the  wall. 

June  lifted  the  very  light  form  that  seemed  hardly  more 
than  a  waxen  doll  from  beside  the  mother  and  held 
the  little  face  against  her  throat.  It  was  the  second 
dead  baby  she  had  held  there  within  a  short  time.  But 
the  other  had  not  groped  with  famished  little  hands  and 
lips  against  breasts  that  had  dried  through  what  the 
profound  dignitaries  call  mal-nutrition.  This  one  had 
been  a  good  many  hours  dying,  while  the  other  drifted 
comfortably  from  sleep  to  sleep. 

Which  was  murder?  And  who  was  responsible  for 
the  death  of  Joe's  baby?  Joe,  gaunt  from  poor  living 
and  long  hours  and  worry,  had  gone  mad  for  the  moment 
with  the  "wailin'  " ;  and  as  he  deftly  waited  on  the  patrons 
this  night  he  could  hear  that  feeble  cry  of  suffering  under 
the  joyous  swing  of  the  Tango  music  that  made  merry  for 
the  fortunate.  Joe  wasn't  bad  and  in  the  extra  glassware 
corner  his  head  went  down  in  his  crooked  arm  and  slow 
tears  soaked  into  the  waiter's  rented  dress  coat. 

A  very  depressed  gas-burner  betrayed  the  uncom- 
promising darkness  of  the  hall  as  June  climbed  wearily 
up  the  stairs.  She  was  desperately  tired,  the  pain  in  her 
side  was  worse,  the  trinkets  she  pawned  to  make  up  de- 
ficits were  growing  few  and  her  nights  were  now 
thronged  with  figures  that  danced  crazily  in  the  dark 
when  she  lay  awake  because  she  was  too  tired  to  sleep, 


132  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  sat  down  and  leaned  her 
head  against  the  old  walnut  banister.  The  dim  hall 
was  heavy  with  the  odours  from  Tom  Sing's  and  from 
the  unappetizing  suppers  being  cooked  in  the  house.  In 
the  teamster's  flat,  the  teamster's  daughter  was  playing 
a  ragtime  with  her  right  hand,  while  she  struck  loud 
chords  very  much  at  random  with  her  left. 

Discordant  noises  clashed  in  from  the  street  and  joined 
Mame's  music,  and  the  street  dust  made  the  air  of  the 
house  hazy  and  acrid  in  the  throat.  June,  her  nerves  now 
naked  to  the  acute  wretchedness  of  it  all,  felt  a  sudden, 
shocking  ripple  of  mirth  shake  her  from  head  to  foot. 
Why,  it  was  hell — just  plain,  sordid,  protracted  hell !  And 
yet,  hideous  as  it  all  was,  she  couldn't  keep  it  going.  Next 
week  she  wouldn't  have  anything  to  pawn ! 

What  did  people  do  next? 

"For  we're  bankrupt,  you  know,  June  girl,"  she  told 
herself,  rubbing  the  unholy  laugh  from  her  lips  with  a 
hand  that  shook.  "We're  cold,  stony  broke,  as  Ted  and 
the  boys  would  say." 

The  boys?  Her  mind  flashed  back  to  that  strange 
world  of  happy-go-lucky  enjoyment  she  had  once  been  a 
part  of.  It  was  another  hemisphere — another  planet. 
What  did  those  prosperous,  proper,  ancestor-dominated 
people  know  of  Life,  unshrouded  and  abominable,  as  she 
knew  it !  Life  ?  Why,  they  were  born  and  lived  and  died 
with  eyes  unopened.  From  the  cradle  they  moved  for- 
ward with  mechanical  accuracy  to  the  neat  tombstone 
waiting  with  the  neat  tombstones  of  their  forbears. 

Of  Life  they  knew  as  much  as  infants  and  "innocents," 
as  calmly  happy  as  they  in  their  ignorance. 

June  felt  the  cold  sweet  sweep  of  the  wind  coming 
across  miles  of  heaving  waters  against  her  burning  face 
and  lips.  Through  her  hot  eyelids  where  acid  tears  stung 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  133 

she  could  see  a  night  sky's  purple  depths — what  Robert 
Louis,  the  beloved,  called  "a  wonderful  calm  night  of 
stars."  It  was  vast  and  serene  and  clean,  that  velvet, 
starred  darkness  that  folded  depth  on  depth  of  fragrant 
shadow  over  sleeping  shore  and  murmurous  waters. 

She  had  loved  it  all  with  a  passion  that  had  but  deep- 
ened with  the  months  and  years.  Its  voices  called  to 
her,  and  its  silent,  long  hours  were  eloquent  with  the 
mysteries  they  poured  into  her  soul,  that  lifted  it  on 
wide,  exultant  wings  to  dizzy  places  where  laughed  her 
pagan  gods. 

"Oh,    you! — you!      Where    are   you?     I    have    lost 


you! " 

She  reached  out  her  arms  suddenly,  then  clutched  the 
walnut  rail  and  pulled  herself  up  to  her  knees.  Hold- 
ing the  wood,  she  dropped  her  lips  against  her  wrist  and 
pressed  them  there  hard.  Unholy  laughter  nor  acrid 
tears — for  these  there  was  no  time.  The  girl  of  the 
Island  had  lived  and  died.  The  woman  of  the  City  had 
now  her  problem.  And  as  Mame  Tully's  ragtime  crashed 
out  with  reckless  and  defiant  discordance,  June  closed 
the  door  of  her  little  flat  briskly  behind  her  and  tossed 
her  tweed  hat  skilfully,  if  at  a  rakish  angle,  onto  her 
father's  handsome  grey  head. 

"You  certainly  are  the  beautifulest  thing,  Dad  Per- 
riss!"  she  informed  him  as  she  kissed  him  on  the  nose. 
"I  am  in  constant  terror  of  those  'widow  ladies'  of  our 
block,  who  have  their  eyes  on  you  and  try  to  be  effusively 
polite  to  me.  I  take  it  with  salt,  James!" 

She  scowled  at  him  knowingly  and  switched  the  sim- 
mering kettle  to  the  front  of  the  little  stove,  where  it 
began  to  sing. 

Mr.  Ferriss  roused  out  of  his  abstraction  and  looked 
up  at  her  with  a  dreamy  smile.  Then  his  eyes  cleared 


134  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

and  they  studied  her  with  some  of  their  old,  piercing 
brilliancy. 

"You're  tired — and  you  look  thin,  June.  What  is  this 
fad  of  yours?  You  are  going  into  it  too  hard,  girl!" 

"Fiddlesticks!" 

His  daughter  breezily  spread  some  dishes  on  a  small 
table  and  added  some  eatables  she  had  brought  home 
with  her. 

"You  belong  to  the  ancienne  regime,  dear  man,"  she 
told  him  with  lofty  pity.  "You  picture  women  in  frilly 
skirts  eight  yards  wide,  sitting  down  tatting.  But  them 
days  has  went,  Jimmy  Ferriss.  We  are  busy  ladies 
these  times,  and  we  are  going  to  make  you  po'  ornery 
male  creatures  sit  up  and  take  notice.  Watch  us!" 

She  patted  his  shoulder  as  she  reached  over  and  filled 
his  cup  and  her  own  out  of  a  small  "Brown  Betty"  tea 
pot,  which  she  returned  to  the  stove. 

"Everything  has  its  compensations,  if  you  mine  deep 
enough)  and  hard  enough  for  them,"  she  murmured 
piously.  "Dining  in  a  ten  by  twelve  kitchen  sans  cere- 
monie,  one  doesn't  need  a  tea-cosy.  And  one's  next 
course  keeps  hot  on  the  stove  till  one  reaches  for  it, 
without  having  to  get  up.  Yes? — hoo-hoo! — I'm  home, 
Dicky!"  she  added,  raising  her  voice  as  a  muffled  triple 
thump  sounded  on  the  wall. 

"Forgotten  something,  as  usual,  I  suppose — another 
poor  helpless  male,"  she  went  on  in  large  commiseration. 
"Butter  this  time,  Richard  ?" 

The  door  opened  and  a  shock  of  hair  surmounting  a 
wild  pair  of  blue  eyes  appeared  around  the  edge. 

"Praise  be!  You're  home.  It's  sugar,  and  I  can't 
drink  my  tea  without  sugar  and  I  can't  go  out — there's 
fifty  divils  drivin'  me  with  work  this  night !" 

"Of  course  you  can't — and  of  course  they  are — and  I 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  135 

was  late.  But  why  didn't  you  ask  Flossie?  She  would 
have  lent  you  sugar  and  made  your  tea  for  you." 

June  twinkled  maliciously  at  her  father  as  Mr.  Regan, 
the  newspaper  artist,  groaned  and  clutched  his  hair. 

"I  don't  want  them  to  make  tea  for  me — and  I  don't 
want  annything  to  do  with  them!"  exclaimed  the  artist 
in  a  rich  brogue,  anguish  on  his  furrowed  brow.  "I 
have  not  time  to  be  bothered  with  women — they  have 
no  sense.  You  have,  but  the  rest  drive  ye  mad  with  their 
chatter — chatter." 

June  laughed  as  she  scooped  some  sugar  into  the  tea- 
cup. Flossie -was  a  cloak  model  who  did  light  house- 
keeping in  one  room  on  the  floor  above  and  she  had 
lingered  frequently  on  the  front  steps  to  express  her 
sympathy  for  the  scowling  but  good-looking  sketchist. 

"There's  your  sugar,  you  mad  Irishman.  What's 
new?" 

"New?  It's  old — the  old  story.  They're  brootes — 
brootes! — the  editors  in  this  country.  In  London  they 
acted  like  gentlemen.  If  they  couldn't  use  your  stuff 

they  explained  like  civilised  bein's.  But  here !"  Mr. 

Regan  raised  clenched  fists  to  Heaven.  "Tjhey  hold  it 
a  week,  then  all  you  see  is  an  impident  boy  who  says 
'the  boss  says  nothin'  doinV  ' 

Mr.  Regan  rolled  sepulchral  "brootes!"  out  of  his 
surcharged  system  with  a  volcanic  wrath  that  was,  to 
June  Ferriss,  a  joy. 

"And  you  can't  punch  his  nose!"  she  sighed  regret- 
fully. "Poor  Dicky.  It's  a  tough  world." 

"Well,  'Life'  bought  the  champagne  glass  evolution 

joke "  This  was  what  the  Broadway  girl  was  turned 

into,  according  to  Regan's  pictures.  "And  a  catalog 
house  gave  me  an  order,  and  the  War  Cry  wants  some 


136  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

more  Hell  cartoons.  So  it's  busy  I'll  be,  praise  God! 
Though  it  isn't  rich  I'm  gettin'." 

June's  intuitive  sixth  sense  detected  a  something  still 
wanted,  and  she  looked  up  from  the  second  supply  of  tea 
she  was  pouring. 

"Can't  I  help  out,  Dicky?    Any  figure  work  to-night?" 

Regan  stretched  out  an  imploring  arm,  finished  off 
with  a  teacup  of  sugar. 

"Oh,  it's  meself  that's  the  broote,  Miss  June!  But 
that  line  and  wash  I  started  yesterday  won't  come  right. 
If  ye're  not  too  tired — just  ten  minutes,  maybe! — — " 

The  brogue  choked  as  June  nodded  obligingly. 

"Why,  of  course,  stupid!     Tailored  or  draped?" 

"Draperies — it's  the  hang  of  the  folds  that  bothers 
me.  And  I'll  pray  to  the  saints  for  ye !"  cried  the  grate- 
ful artist,  diving  gladly  across  the  hall  to  get  his  supper, 
which  he  ate  with  one  speculative  eye  on  his  easel. 

A  little  later,  June  Ferriss,  a  kimono  of  soft  white 
woollen  fabric  twisted  around  her,  went  over  and  placed 
herself  in  a  chair  in  the  pose  required. 

Regan,  all  grateful  enthusiasm,  worked  like  mad, 
pausing  occasionally  to  roll  himself  the  artist's  and  jour- 
nalist's favourite  "short  smoke,"  which  he  puffed  with 
nervous  fierceness  while  he  studied  the  lines  of  his 
model's  robe  as  she  leaned  easily  back  against  the  cush- 
ion he  had  braced  her  tired  back  with. 

The  line  and  wash  was  one  of  his  "good  things"  that 
were  as  the  breath  of  his  nostrils,  that  he  held  to  with 
dogged  pertinacity  through  the  seven-day  grind  of  the 
week  for  bread.  Slow  sellers,  these  "good  things."  The 
jokes  and  the  crude  cartoons  and  the  commercial  work 
paid,  if  but  little.  But  they  were  the  "still-born"  of  his 
talent — the  things  ground  out  against  the  beat  of  strain- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  137 

ing  pulses — the  things  that  had  nothing  of  the  thrill  of 
creating  and  nothing  of  the  glory  of  achievement. 

"Did  you  find  the  'Hunger*  you  were  going  to  show 
me?"  June  asked  during  one  of  the  pauses,  while  Regan 
wrestled  with  a  refractory  hair  in  one  of  his  fine  brushes. 

"I  did "  He  swooped  down  on  a  case  that  stood 

on  the  floor  packed  with  sketches,  and  selected  a  card 
that  he  handed  to  her. 

It  was  a  wash-drawing  of  a  tramp.  There  was  a 
suggestion  of  Winter  and  of  barren  fields  behind  him — • 
the  figure  faced  you  with  its  hat  pulled  low  over  the 
eyes,  hands  thrust  into  the  pockets  of  a  shabby  coat, 
knees  slightly  bent.  That  was  all.  But  the  face  that 
looked  straight  at  yours — the  gaunt  features,  the  hag- 
gard eyes,  the  bare,  brutal  tragedy  of  failure  that  knows 
the  profound  depths  to  which  failure  can  sink — these 
caught  at  you. 

Regan  swept  in  his  last  satisfying  strokes  triumphantly 
and  reached  for  the  tobacco. 

"I  am  yours  forever,  Mary  Ellen  Ryan,"  he  announced 
happily.  "Faith  an'  I'll  sleep  like  an  angel  this  night, 
thanks  to  you,  Miss  June.  That  picture  is  out  of  my 
system,  so  I  can  turn  to  an'  saw  cordwood  awhile,  with- 
out the  police  bein'  called  because  of  me  shmashin'  the 
furniture.  Glory  be!" 

At  midnight  June,  wide-eyed,  lay  on  the  narrow  couch- 
bed  in  the  little  living  room.  A  stand  beside  the  couch 
held  a  shaded  student-lamp,  some  books  and  a  squat 
brass  bowl  with  some  heather  in  it.  On  the  walls  were 
a  few  good  engravings  and  etchings,  and  some  low, 
open  shelves  held  books  and  periodicals.  Several  worn 
but  massive  leather  easy  chairs  and  some  dull-toned  rugs 
about  completed  the  few  relics  of  that  other  life  that 
Ferriss  and  his  daughter  had  once  known.  But  the  room 


138  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

was  restful  in  itself,  in  the  semi-quiet  of  the  night's 
meridian,  and  June's  eyes,  when  night  and  sleeplessness 
began  to  become  familiar  things,  wandered  over  the  old, 
memory-steeped  articles  with  an  ache  of  longing  that 
deepened  their  shadows  of  pain. 

To-night  with  the  "Hunger"  propped  against  the  wall 
beside  her,  she  lay  in  the  utterly  motionless  posture  of 
complete  exhaustion.  Under  the  white  woollen  folds 
her  breast  hardly  stirred  in  its  tired  breathing. 

But  the  eyes,  where  pain's  artist-thumb  had  smudged 
its  dark  shadow,  were  very  much  alive,  and  in  their 
darkness  was  a  lambent  flame  that  the  eyes  of  the  tramp 
had  wakened. 

She  was  fighting  with  every  inch  of  her  strung  taut 
as  a  bow-string,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  losing.  The 
auger  that  bored  into  her  side  began  to  take  shape  as  a 
malign  power  that  pressed  home  its  torture  with  careful 
gauging  of  her  strength.  It  did  not  kill — it  would  not 
kill — but  it  turned,  day  and  night,  night  and  day,  till 
the  brutal  persistence  of  it  filled  her  soul  with  recurring 
storms  of  rebellion  in  which  sight  went  red. 

It  was  the  camel  crossing  the  desert  with  the  burden 
and  the  sore  on  its  hump,  of  James  Lane  Allen's  book. 
He  could  understand  the  burden,  but  he  couldn't  under- 
stand the  sore. 

And  June,  with  narrowing  walls  of  circumstances 
steadily  closing  around  her,  with  exhaustion  and  pain 
dragging  her  down  like  weighted  corpses  on  a  spent 
swimmer,  lay  in  the  dim-lit  room  staring  into  the  eyes 
of  the  failure,  while  his  protest,  ugly  and  bitter,  spoke 
to  her  protest  that  understood. 

Her  eyes  held  by  the  steady,  bitter  eyes  of  the  picture, 
June  reached  for  pad  and  pencil  and  wrote  what  they  said 
to  her: 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  139 


THE  DERELICT 

What  is  the  use  of  fighting? 

I'm  down  and  out  and  done ; 
My  bent  knee  cramp  is  the  prison  stamp, 

For  I  am  a  convict's  son. 

Sired  by  a  crook  and  dam'd 

By  a  She-thing  out  for  hire, 
Our  birth-right  sold  for  wanton  gold, 

Our  heritage  the  mire — > — 

We  are  born  with  ears  outstanding, 
We  are  nursed  at  the  breasts  of  Sin, 

And  by  Good  forgot,  we  warp  and  rot 
Before  our  lives  begin. 

Bad  was  the  seed  that  bred  us, 

Bad  was  the  womb  that  bore, 
And  bad  is  the  flaw  in  the  bitter  law 

That  damns  us  evermore. 

Oaths  were  my  father's  greeting, 

Oaths  were  my  lullaby, 
And  the  spawn  of  shame  play  a  losing  game 

'Gainst  Nature's  conspiracy ! 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

BUT  I  didn't  write  it — it  was  all  in  the  picture, 
Dicky,"  she  said  to  Regan  the  next  evening.  "I 
used  to  have  pictures  tell  me  things  when  I  was  in 
college." 

Regan  was  re-reading  the  verses  in  silence  while  Mr. 
Ferriss,  roused  to  interest  by  the  voices,  reached  for  a 
portfolio  among  the  books  on  the  shelves. 

"This  is  full  of  the  fruit  of  the  'green  and  salad  days/ 
Regan,"  he  said,  drawing  out  a  lot  of  loose  college  maga- 
zine leaves  and  stray  sheets  of  paper  with  fine  scratchy 
sketches,  and  handing  them  to  the  artist.  "Some  of  them 
are  not  bad.  But  she  dropped  all  that  interesting  non- 
sense when  she  came  home." 

Regan,  still  in  silence,  took  the  papers  with  their  non- 
sense verses  and  distinctly  clever  little  drawings  and 
pulled  his  long  nose  cruelly  as  he  scowled  more  and 
more  deeply  over  the  jingles.  At  last  he  sighed  and 
looked  up  at  June,  who  was  basting  the  clean  linen  bands 
in  her  business  waist  for  the  morning. 

"Drudgin' — drudgin'  like  a  slavey — an'  nobody  knew 
she  cud  do  it — an'  they  were  here  ahl  the  toime." 

Mr.  Regan's  brogue  became  bog-like  as  his  excitement 
increased.  "Wumman! — wumman! — ye  won't  set  the 
Thames  on  foire,  an'  who  wants  ta!  But  by  the  blissid 
saints  in  glory,  ye  can  get  out  of  that  slave  factory." 

June  broke  her  thread  and  patted  the  white  linen  into 
place,  then  closed  her  work  basket  and  leaned  forward. 

"You  mean ?"  she  said,  her  voice  carefully  steady, 

140 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  141 

and  Regan's  red  hair  bristled  into  an  aurora  as  he  shoved 
his  fingers  through  it  rapturously. 

"I  mean  that  wan  of  those  verselet  things,  wid  the 
sketch,  will  pay  you  as  much  as  those  holy  pirates  pay 
you  in  a  week.  Go  to  it!  To  the  bottom  wid  those 
dictionary  daylight  robbers !  Oi'll  take  the  best  of  these 
down  to  some  of  those  editor  barbarians  to-morrow." 

It  was  in  this  wise  that  June  Ferriss  was  gathered 
into  the  Brotherhood.  Her  untrained  but  daring  pencil 
had  a  breezy  trick  of  its  own  that  stamped  it  as  indi- 
vidual. Her  nonsense  verses  were  often  the  veriest 
nonsense,  but  they  somehow  found  a  smile  or  a  sigh 
lurking  unawares  in  a  trifling  incident  or  sentiment,  and 
being  her  own  sketchist,  sketch  and  squib  were  more  truly 
akin  than  where  they  are  products  of  separate  brains, 
however  sympathetic. 

"The  barbarians"  received  her  with  suspicion  and 
adopted  her  with  approbation.  It  was  "pretty  good 
dope — handy  fillers  for  page  make-up — useful  syndicate 
stuff."  And  June  felt  her  way  carefully,  and  yet  with 
an  odd  sense  of  familiarity,  along  the  busy,  brusquely 
healthy  path  of  artist  life. 

No  editor  would  print  The  Derelict,  so  it  went  into 
the  portfolio  of  forgotten  things.  But  June  and  Regan 
were  too  busy  and  too  interested  and  too  philosophical 
to  care. 

They  cheerfully  ground  out  "pot-boilers,"  wrangled 
over  ideas  and  their  treatment,  and  tramped  the  City's 
byways  regardless  of  the  Curfew  of  conventionality. 

Conventions  were  of  shallow  root  and  of  an  uncul- 
tured variety  in  their  world.  It  was  a  world  that  gave 
little  credit  to  hot-house  virtues — a  world  whose  women 
were  storm-swept  pines,  whipped  and  beaten  by  winds 
that  either  broke  or  strengthened.  It  was,  in  bitter 


142  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

earnest,  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  It  weeded  out  little 
meannesses,  and  it  twisted  into  the  fibre  of  its  women  the 
sterner  and  stronger  qualities  that  are  borne  of  battle 
and  resistance  and  conquest. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

A  YEAR  later,  Regan's  muffled  triple  thump  sounded 
on  the  wall  of  one  of  June  Ferriss's  rooms,  and 
June  "Hoo-hoo'd"  in  reply.  But  it  was  a  different  wall 
this  time. 

With  the  easy  "army- fash  ion"  way  of  changing  quar- 
ters on  marching  orders  that  Bohemia  has,  the  Ferriss 
and  Regan  household  gods  had  flitted  several  streets 
farther  North  and  had  fitted  themselves  quickly  and 
deftly  into  newer  and  more  attractive  niches. 

June  had  moved  into  a  cheerful  little  four-room  apart- 
ment fitted  out  as  conveniently  and  compactly  as  a  yacht. 
Regan  growled  ferociously  at  having  his  work  broken 
into,  but  refused  to  be  left  behind.  So  he  packed  up  to 
a  running  accompaniment  of  irate  protest  and  unpacked 
with  dire  threats  if  "it  happened  again,"  to  which  Miss 
Ferriss,  busy  and  happy,  sweetly  enquired :  "Did  you 
speak,  Dicky?" 

Regan  had  a  two-room  and  bath  "batch"  apartment, 
was  working  like  a  steam  engine  and  growing  used  to 
America.  He  had  now  as  little  patience  with  the  wast- 
ing of  seconds  over  non-essentials  as  the  impolite  edi- 
tor gentlemen  of  whom  he  had  once  disapproved.  He 
was  still  loyal  to  London  and  the  sacred  memory  of 
Phil  May,  but  with  quick  Irish  adaptability  had  taken 
root  firmly  in  the  new,  vibrant  soil  that  bristled  with 
all  sorts  of  growths  that  meant  opportunity. 

Meanwhile,  June,  ever  scouting  for  new  ideas,  found 
the  team-work  not  only  profitable  but  convenient  in 
many  ways.  Regan's  character  work  was  his  strongest, 

143 


144  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

and  together  they  hunted  for  "types"  of  City  night  life, 
which  is  a  City  in  itself,  and  in  the  hunting  June's  ma- 
terial for  stories  and  sketches  piled  up  rapidly  in  the 
storehouse  of  her  mind. 

On  the  night  of  the  signal  that  opens  our  chapter, 
Regan  came  in  to  say  he  wanted  some  characters  in  a 
Chinese  play  that  was  then  running  for  an  article  on 
Oriental  drama.  It  was  a  rush  assignment,  and  not 
an  easy  one,  as  a  Chinese  superstition  regarding  some- 
thing in  the  way  of  "witch-magic"  or  some  such  preju- 
dice hard  to  analyse  in  the  labyrinthine  Oriental  mind, 
made  sketching  in  Chinatown  not  only  difficult,  but 
dangerous. 

In  securing  his  thumb-nail  sketches,  June  was  of  in- 
valuable assistance.  So,  as  her  little  desk-clock  chimed 
the  half-hour  after  ten,  June  buttoned  herself  into  a 
close-fitting  dark  coat,  pulled  a  soft  cloth  walking  hat 
down  over  her  brows  and  announced  herself  ready. 

It  was  a  comparatively  short  run  across  town  to  the 
Chinese  section,  and  they  were  soon  threading  their  way 
among  the  soft-footed,  slant-eyed  residents.  Shops  dimly 
lighted  but  crowded  with  either  Chinese  silks,  carvings 
and  china,  or  with  strange-looking  Chinese  edibles,  were 
elbowed  tightly  together.  In  doorways,  iron  tripods 
supported  charcoal  braziers  over  which  odd-smelling 
foods  were  cooking.  In  the  doorways  and  on  stools 
along  the  sidewalk  the  merchants  lounged,  smoked  and 
chattered  in  their  sing-song  dialect.  The  temples  with 
their  huge  crimson  and  gilt  gods  glimmered  from  second- 
story  windows — glimmered  dustily,  for  the  great  carven 
figures  that  sit  and  stare  in  ironic  gravity  out  over  the 
heads  of  awed  "personally  conducted"  tourists  knew,  as 
June  and  Regan  knew,  that  they  were  for  the  most  part 
but  "tourist"  gods.  For  the  grave-faced  Celestial  has 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  145 

a  sense  of  humour  and  will  give  imitation  religion  to 
the  curious  generously,  content  that  the  tourist  coin 
flow  in  remunerative  stream  into  shop  and  chop-suey 
house  coffers. 

Regan  and  his  companion  made  their  way  into  the 
theatre  and  down  an  aisle  through  the  heavy  fumes  of 
opium.  Skirting  the  audience,  they  chose  seats  at  the 
extreme  right,  with  Regan  next  to  the  wall.  Thus  seated, 
he  held  his  thumb-nail  pad  under  June's  elbow  and  "took 
notes" — microscopic  strokes  that  would  bloom  next  day 
into  drawings  of  wonderfully  accurate  detail. 

The  stage  was  raised  about  two  feet  from  the  floor, 
and  the  actors,  according  to  Chinese  custom,  were  all 
men.  Those  who  took  the  women's  parts  were  rouged 
a  violent  red,  and  all  pitched  their  voices  in  a  nerve- 
racking  falsetto  and  walked  with  a  mincing,  affected  step 
which  they  dropped  for  their  natural  slow  tread  while  in 
full  view  of  the  audience  when  they  reached  the  exit. 

The  costumes  for  this  particular  play,  which  was  weeks 
long,  picking  up  each  night  the  thread  of  the  drama 
where  it  was  dropped  the  night  before,  were  particularly 
gorgeous  and  complicated  in  their  symbolism,  and  Regan 
was  quickly  busy  while  battle,  murder  and  sudden 
death  held  the  attention  of  the  absorbed  onlookers. 

June,  sensitive  to  conditions,  was  soon  aware,  how- 
ever, that  the  Oriental  beside  her  was  growing  suspicious. 
With  subtle  carefulness,  he  would  lean  far  back  in  his 
seat.  June,  apparently  absorbed  in  the  action  of  the 
play,  would  mechanically  lean  back  also.  Very  soon  the 
dark-clad  form  at  her  left  would  stir  uneasily  and  then 
carelessly  lean  forward.  June,  her  gaze  intently  fixed 
on  a  hideously  rouged  actor,  would  lean  forward  also, 
her  lips  parted  and  every  evidence  of  enthralled  admira- 
tion in  face  and  pose. 


146  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

The  crafty,  Oriental  eyes  would  turn  in  their  narrow 
slits  and  she  would  feel  the  alien  and  sinister  watchful- 
ness searching  her  features  as  though  it  was  a  scalpel 
of  fine,  cold  steel. 

Regan,  making  every  second  count,  kept  the  pad  under 
her  elbow,  his  busy  pencil  not  pausing  as  his  hands,  with 
wrists  touching,  moved  forward  or  back  as  she  moved. 
They  were  the  only  foreigners  in  the  big,  dim,  smoke- 
reeking  hall.  And  they  were  of  necessity  close  to  the 
stage  and  a  long  way  from  the  door.  There  was  some 
danger,  but  they  were  used  to  danger,  and  took  it  with 
easy  philosophy  as  part  of  the  game. 

As  further  changing  of  position,  in  seeming  uncon- 
sciousness, was  nearing  the  precarious  point,  the  wel- 
come signal  of  the  little  pad  against  her  arm  told  June 
the  cast  had  been  secured.  Neither  she  nor  Regan 
changed  their  attitude,  however,  and  the  Chinaman  at 
June's  left,  after  some  moments  of  searching  scrutiny, 
finally  settled  back,  baffled. 

After  another  five  minutes  of  the  falsetto  dialogue 
with  the  chorus  roll  of  drums  that  followed  every  heroic 
sentence  in  rather  bewildering  fashion,  the  two  white 
spectators  quietly  slipped  along  the  wall  aisle  and  out 
to  the  street. 

"Johnny  Chink  was  'on,'  all  right,"  chuckled  Regan  as 
he  took  June's  arm  and  they  walked  down  the  street. 
"But  you  kept  him  guessin',  alanna.  Sure  an'  it's  the 
Sara  Bernhardt  ye  wud  make!  I  was  watchin'  ye  out 
of  top  o'  my  head,  an'  faith  I  began  to  think  ye  were 
mashed  on  the  matinee  gink  with  the  pink  pagoda  on 
his  head,  and  the  green  petticoat.  And  now  for  some  tay 
— may  God  bliss  the  man  that  invinted  that  same !" 

Chop-suey  and  little  bowls  of  fragrant  tea  rounded  off 
the  night's  work  comfortably.  It  was  too  late  for  tour- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  147 

ists,  but  several  Chinamen  were  gathered  around  one  of 
the  tables  visiting,  one  with  a  solemn-eyed  two-year-old 
sitting  on  the  table  in  front  of  him.  Regan  got  the  baby 
on  his  inch  pad  and  sighed  blissfully. 

"That  means  nixt  month's  rent,  glory  be  to  God!" 
said  he  piously,  stuffing  the  little  pad  in  his  pocket.  "I 
can  shteal  a  little  time  for  that  oil — the  twilight  thing, 
you  know — this  week,  I  think." 

"Ghosts?" 

Regan  nodded. 

"The  *  Jiu-jitsu'  series  will  keep  the  commissariat  from 
goin'  empty,  and  those  vaudeville  display  cards  will  pay 
the  laundry,  so  it's  a  millionaire  I  am  till  the  first,  any- 
how. Jawn  D.  himself  can't  do  more  than  ate  an'  schlape 
and  look  around  a  bit,  can  he  ?" 

"And  he  hasn't  the  excitement  of  'playing  the  game' !" 
June  leaned  forward  on  her  elbows,  balancing  the  tiny 
china  tea-bowl  on  the  palm  of  her  hand.  "It's  all  a 
game,  Dicky.  We  roll  the  dice  and  Fate  keeps  the  count, 
deuce  and  four,  six  and  trey.  When  she  plays  fair 
we  can  keep  even.  But  she  doesn't  always  play  fair. 
Sometimes  she  loads  the  dice " 

"And  thin  we  go  broke !" 

Regan  sighed  tragically. 

"Sure,  the  first  av  the  month  is  always  a  gamble,  an' 
that's  the  truth,"  he  agreed.  "To  ate,  or  not  to  ate? 
To  shtand  off  the  agent  wid  his  rent,  or  to  move?  To 
lick  the  shpalpeen  that  ordhered  commercial  drawings 
and  lied  fifty  per  cent  off  the  price  agreed,  or  turn  the 
other  cheek  for  the  sake  of  bein'  a  Christian  an'  because 
ye  need  the  money.  My  Gawd,  if  I  could  get  some  of 
the  nose-smashin'  out  of  moy  system  that  I  am  kapin' 
warrum  for  some  o'  thim  crooks  that  owe  me  money  this 
minnut — ' — !" 


148  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

Together  they  prowled  wherever  Life  could  be  found 
shorn  of  its  disguise,  and  in  the  prowlings  they  found 
it  fiercely  real.  Pauper-ward  of  hospital,  jail,  morgue, 
opium-joint,  the  City's  "bad-lands"  where  crime  lives 
and  breeds  while  the  law  in  all  its  majesty  looks  on  and 
knows  and  is  helpless — into  these  they  blended,  both 
quick  to  take  on  the  vague,  intangible  air  of  their  sur- 
roundings and  so  able  to  get  local  colour  for  the  publi- 
cations that  sent  their  sudden,  imperative  calls  for 
"stuff." 

And  June's  circle  of  friends  widened  steadily,  if  rather 
startlingly  as  to  type.  In  fact,  respectability  did  not  in- 
terest her  at  all.  Her  chiefs  never  sent  her  out  on  the 
regular  "grind,"  that  harvests  the  steady  diet  the  press 
serves  with  the  morning  coffee.  She  would  have  made 
more  money  if  they  had,  but  she  would  have  broken 
down  in  a  month. 

Her  odd,  scratchy  little  sketches  were  impressionistic 
in  the  literal  sense.  They  were  little,  erratic  vignettes 
born  of  a  face,  an  incident,  the  glimpse  of  a  scene 
caught,  as  it  were,  through  the  swinging  door  that  closed 
again  shutting  the  story  itself  inside.  To  these  she  added 
little  scratchy  stories,  vagrant  fancies,  broken  mosaics. 

And  her  familiars  dropped  in  at  all  hours  for  shop- 
talk  and  a  sandwich.  Mr.  Ferriss  would  rouse  from 
the  tranquil  lethargy  that  held  him  for  the  most  part 
and  enjoy  the  brisk  matching  of  wits  when  three  or 
four  tired  toilers  of  Bohemia  "fell  in"  and  took  posses- 
sion of  the  "flatlet." 

"You  see,  you  and  the  flatlet  are  really  handy  things 
to  have  round,"  Miss  Ferriss  was  graciously  informed 
one  evening  when  she  reached  home  and  found  six 
embryo  stars  of  several  professions  very  busy  in  her 
kitchen. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  149 

Mr.  Ferriss  had  been  tied  into  a  gingham  apron  and 
set  to  peeling  oranges.  The  six  stars,  variously  made 
and  in  the  making,  were  getting  dinner.  Qara  Sher- 
bourn,  stately  Southern  woman  with  a  classic  head  and 
figure,  was  washing  lettuce.  Her  husband,  a  playwright 
and  star,  and  for  whom  she  was  leading  woman,  was 
anxiously  watching  a  large  steak  which  was  broiling 
in  the  gas  range.  The  playwright  was  six  feet  three 
in  height,  of  splendid  physique,  and  strikingly  hand- 
some. Wayne  Huntoon  seemed  an  especial  favourite  of 
the  deities  that  rule  destinies.  Possessed  of  talent,  good 
looks  and  a  winning  good  nature,  he  took  these  pos- 
sessions in  an  easy,  matter-of-course  fashion  that  en- 
deared him  to  the  members  of  his  companies  and  to 
the  friends  who  claimed  him  the  country  over. 

Standing  beside  him  was  the  novelist,  Orin  Tweed, 
one  inch  taller  than  Huntoon,  also  broad-shouldered,  with 
a  leonine  head  of  iron-grey  hair,  a  profile  like  those 
found  on  bronze  Roman  coins,  stormily  bristling  eye- 
brows and  eyes  as  gentle  and  tender  as  one  of  the  maiden 
characters  in  his  books. 

A  slim  girl,  "Mocky"  Hazleton,  was  perched  on  the 
table  making  salad  dressing,  and  a  little,  oldish  man, 
partially  bald  and  with  a  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  nose,  was 
sitting  on  the  table  beside  her,  grinding  coffee  in  a 
mill  held  on  his  lap.  Miss  Hazleton  played  ingenue 
roles  in  Huntoon's  company,  and  the  oldish  man  was  a 
newspaper  free-lance  who  wrote  exquisite  lyrics  and 
wistful,  fragmentary  bits  of  verse  that  were  as  delicate 
as  cobwebs,  dew-gemmed  where  the  dawn  light  touched 
them  into  fairy  loveliness.  He  was  affectionately  called 
"the  major" — Major  Henry  Dascom — and  the  major 
was  a  chivalrous  and  gallant  admirer  of  the  gentler  sex, 
as  shown  by  his  verse,  and  had  suffered  many  and  vari- 


150  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

ous  disillusions  in  the  name  of  romance,  that  had  caused 
him  to  plunge  his  sorrow  into  the  fountain  of  forget- 
fulness  recommended  by  Omar,  the  Persian — this,  as 
was  shown  by  his  nose. 

Dicky  was  slicing  bread  on  the  draining  board  of  the 
little  white  porcelain  sink,  where  Miss  Sherbourn  was 
"spatting"  the  lettuce  leaves  free  of  water. 

"Hello,  you  crowd! — welcome  to  our  city!  Heavens, 
that  steak  do  smell  lickin'  good,  chile!  If  you  let  it 
burn,  Wayne,  Clara  will  wear  weeds — hyah  me  talkin', 
man!"  cried  the  belated  hostess. 

To  the  imminent  danger  of  the  steak,  the  chef  turned 
upon  the  lady  who  threatened  his  life  and  gathered  her 
into  a  large  and  bear-like  hug. 

"Her  was  the  faggonedinist  faggondene  doggone  'at 

ever  was "  intoned  Mr.  Huntoon  in  sacred  rapture. 

"Her  was  the  everlastinest  and  mos'  beautifulis'  fag- 
gon " 

A  determined  elbow  well  jammed  into  the  third  but- 
ton of  Mr.  Huntoon's  apron-draped  vest  ended  the 
tribute  in  a  pained  gasp,  and  Miss  Ferriss  twisted  out 
of  the  smothering  embrace  and  grabbed  wrath  fully  at 
her  falling  hairpins. 

"You  great  big  mountain !"  she  exclaimed  in  indigna- 
tion rather  marred  in  effect  by  a  mouthful  of  tortoise- 
shell.  "The  steak !  The  steak !"  she  added  in  anguish. 

"The  steak! — — "  took  up  a  Greek  chorus,  but  the 
resourceful  novelist  had  skilfully  grabbed  a  wooden  salad 
spoon  and  a  japanned  thermometer  off  the  wall,  and 
with  these  swung  the  smoking  sirloin  aloft  to  safety. 

"Dad  Ferriss  has  the  oranges — slice  them,  like  a 
duck,  for  the  salad,  June  child,  and  we're  ready,"  called 
Miss  Sherbourn  over  the  confusion  of  greeting.  "If 
you  people  will  stop  your  noise  for  a  minute  and  carry 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  151 

these  things  in  to  the  table!  Major,  that  coffee-aroma 
is  Araby  the  blest.  Bring  along  your  little  music-box. 
Put  in  oodles  of  oil,  Mocky  child.  I'm  too  fat  now, 
and  Wayne  swears  he'll  discharge  me  if  I  don't  train 
down.  But  if  he  does,  I'll  get  a  divorce  and  you'll 
marry  me,  won't  you,  Major?" 

"Marry  you!"  The  major's  voice  was  tremulous  with 
emotion,  and  grabbing  the  olive  oil,  he  poured  a  golden 
stream  recklessly  over  the  green  leaves. 

"Traitor!"  thundered  the  star,  wrenching  the  bottle 
away.  Then  he  held  it  aloft  and  gazed  at  it  bitterly. 

"And  I  loved  her! — I  loved  her,  although  she  was 
m'  wife.  And  he,  m'  trusted  friend,  betrayed  me !  This 
bottle — this! — For  the  woman  who  slept  in  m'  bosom, 
he  emptied  this  bottle,  and  it  cost  me  eighty  cents!" 

The  laughing  crowd  were  gathering  up  articles  to  be 
carried  to  the  next  room,  yet  lingered  in  obedience  to 
the  rare  witchery  of  the  golden  voice  weighted  with  its 
mock  pathos. 

Tweed  pointed  to  him  with  the  gravied  thermometer 
and  exclaimed  despairingly:  "That's  the  way  he  pulls 
out  the  tremolo  stop  when  he  wants  to  borrow  money, 
and  I  always  lend  it  to  him.  I  swear  I  won't,  and  when 
I  know  he's  short  I  don't  take  any  money  with  me. 
And  then  he  gets  his  voice  going  like  that,  and  it 
wouldn't  matter  if  he  just  recited  the  Illinois  Central 
time-table — I  would  go  right  down  and  pawn  my  watch 
and  give  him  the  ten." 

At  the  table,  Huntoon  swung  the  long  apron  over  his 
left  shoulder,  toga  fashion,  and  proceeded  to  carve  the 
meat.  Through  the  babel  of  voices  his  wife  called  to 
him  from  the  other  end  of  the  table : 

"That  reminds  me  of  the  farmer  in  Fairville — tell 
June,  Wayne." 


152  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

Huntoon  grinned  reminiscently. 

"We  were  doing  one-night  stands  and  playing  water- 
tanks  and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  was  star  and  stage- 
carpenter,  and  Clara  was  doubling  as  wardrobe  woman 
and  treasurer,  when  we  had  anything  to  treasure.  In 
fact,  we  were  not  under  a  benign  star,  but  we  needed 
the  money,  so  we  played  everything  and  anywhere.  We 
struck  Fairville  at  fair  time — jumped  from  the  other 
town  after  the  performance  and  arrived  in  the  sma' 
hours  to  find  the  one  hotel  full.  We  were  directed  to 
Si  Mullin's  place,  as  Si  took  boarders  when  he  could 
get  them,  and  we  pounded  on  the  front  door.  Si  stuck 
his  head  out  of  the  window  and  called  down :  'Who  be 
ye?'  We  were  shivering  in  the  snow,  but  I  answered 
as  winningly  as  the  night  I  accepted  Clara  when  she 
proposed :  'This  is  the  world-famous  Huntoon  Com- 
pany of  players,  and  we  have  come  to  board  with  you 
during  our  engagement  in  the  city.'  Si  peered  down  at 
us  suspiciously  and  then  enquired :  'Well,  be  you  any 
o'  them  togy  fellers?'  'Any  what?'  I  asked.  'Togy 
fellers — them  that  wears  togys  in  their  play-actin'.  I 
ain't  goin'  to  take  in  no  more  o'  them  kind,  'cause  the 
last  ones  stole  my  sheets  to  wear  fer  togys.' ' 

"And  that  was  one  time  Wayne's  winning  voice  Water- 
loo'd.  It  didn't  go  with  Si,  and  I  had  to  assure  him  we 
were  playing  The  Two  Orphans  and  East  Lynne"  added 
his  wife. 

Mocky  was  clamouring  to  make  the  coffee  in  the  per- 
colator and  the  major  was  afraid  she  would  burn  her 
fingers.  He  allowed  her  to  turn  the  little  tap  while  he 
poured  the  coffee  back  into  the  bubbling  bowl,  and  she 
left  the  little  tap  turned  on  when  she  suddenly  happened 
to  think  of  a  story  she  wanted  to  tell. 

"Wurra,  wurra!"  mourned  Regan  as  he  quickly  hauled 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  153 

her  curly  head  down  on  his  breast  and  reached  over 
it  to  grab  the  tap.  "Not  that  I  love  you  less,  but  I 
love  coffee  more,  mavourneen,"  he  added  as  he  re- 
leased the  head  and  drew  the  urn-tray  in  front  of 
his  own  place.  "The  major  loves  not  wisely  but  too 
well,  an'  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  I  will  carve  the 
coffee  meself." 

"Oh,  do  be  quiet,  you'all,  and  let  me  talk!"  Mocky 
wailed,  in  her  plaintive,  child-like  voice  that  always 
brought  tears  so  easily  to  the  eyes  of  an  audience.  "I 
want  to  tell  what  Wayne  and  Orin  did  last  night.  You 
know,  they  were  to  orate  at  the  Union  League  and  there 

was  a  new  door-man  who  didn't  know  them " 

("Fame !  What  is  fame ! — when  a  door-man  knows  you 
not!"  Huntoon  murmured  bitterly.  "June,  take  your 
elbow  out  of  the  olives  and  let  me  have  one  and  a  half, 
nicht  wahrf") 

"June,  choke  him  with  olives!"  Miss  Hazleton  ex- 
claimed indignantly.  "I  will  tell  my  story !  They  hadn't 
any  ticket  with  them,  and  when  the  man  said  they  would 
have  to  show  their  tickets  they  just  turned  and  went  out 
again.  And  there  were  some  of  those  horribly  rich 
magnate  men  to  be  at  the  banquet,  too,  who  expected 
to  hear  them.  Well,  they  didn't  send  in  for  anybody — 
they  just  went  down  to  the  corner  and  wept  and  said 
they  were  out  in  the  cold  world  and  nobody  cared  for 
them,  and  what  would  they  do  ? — " 

"Well,  I'll  leave  it  to  the  distinguished  company  here 
present  if  that  was  not  the  case,"  Mr.  Tweed  objected, 
waving  a  dill  pickle  comprehensively  to  the  table. 

"And  then,  what  do  you  think?"  continued  Miss  Ha- 
zleton. "They  turned  up  their  coat  collars,  pulled  their 
soft  felt  hats  down  over  their  noses,  hunched  their 
shoulders  and  asked  each  man  they  met  for  the  price 


154  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

of  a  night's  lodging.  They  took  turns,  and  the  men 
lectured  them  awfully  for  being  so  lazy,  and  they  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  themselves,  such  big,  strong  men  as 
they  were,  to  beg  on  the  street,  and  why  didn't  they  get 
work  to  do  ?  And  they  would  stammer  and  explain  how 
they  were  sick — sick ! — look  at  them !  and  the  men  would 
nearly  burst,  they  would  get  so  mad,  and  they  would 
stride  away  to  write  the  papers,  I  suppose,  about  the 
growing  hobo  evil.  And  these  two  would  weep  on  each 
other's  shoulders  and  wait  for  the  next  man.  And  the 
Union  League  was  having  cat-fits  phoning  every  hotel 
and  club  in  town  for  their  star  speakers!" 

"We  were  refused  admittance,  and  we  wouldn't  be 
rude  to  a  respectable  door-man,"  insisted  Tweed  firmly. 
"We  are  gentlemen,  perfect  gentlemen." 

"Besides,  we  were  studying  character — putting  our- 
selves in  the  place  of  the  homeless  and  moneyless,  to 
portray  them  in  our  art  with  the  rare  fidelity  for  which 
we  are  famous,"  added  Mr.  Huntoon  modestly. 

"Studying  poppycock!"  sniffed  Miss  Hazleton  irrev- 
erently. "They  put  in  about  two  hours  of  this  sort  of 
thing,  having  the  time  of  their  lives,  while  the  Union 
League  was  losing  its  church  standing  and  melting  the 
wires.  And  then  they  struck  a  gambler  and  he  listened 
to  their  story,  and  he  hauled  out  a  quarter  and  said : 
'The  two-bit  is  my  last  and  only,  boys,  but  I'll  whack 
up.  It's  good  for  schooners.'  And  they  each  took  an 
arm  of  the  gambler  and  showed  him  everything  worth 
while.  He  eat  and  drank  till  he  must  be  dead  by  now." 

"A  slight  token  of  our  gratitude,"  explained  Mr. 
Tweed.  "The  world  seemed  full  of  good  advice  and 
estimable  people,  but  we  sighed  for  the  oasis  and  the 
tinkling  spring.  For  the  friend  who  would  question  not, 
nor  improve  the  shining  occasion,  but  would  give  com- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  155 

fort  to  our  hearts  and  refreshment  to  our  spirits " 

"And  spirits  for  our  refreshment,"  cheerfully  added 
Huntoon.  "The  gambler  was  not  respectable,  but  he 
looked  with  large  tolerance  upon  human  weakness,  and 
he  gave  us  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  We  really  were 
thirsty  by  that  time,  and  we  were  also  sick.  The  re- 
spectable gentlemen  had  made  us  sick.  They  all  'harped 
upon  the  mouldered  string'  of  our  size  and  our  jobless- 
ness. We  might  have  been  telling  the  truth,  but  it  was 
cheaper  to  believe  that  we  lied.  The  gambler,  not  being 
respectable,  knew  the  queer  freaks  of  Fate  and  knew 
that  life  sometimes  has  downs  that  are  unavoidable,  as 
well  as  ups  that  are  not  aways  to  our  credit.  Success 
does  not  always  bear  analysis.  It  is  a  golden  apple  that 
is  frequently  spotted  and  not  infrequently  rotten  at  the 
core." 

"What  saith  the  Union  Leaguers  to-day?"  Regan  en- 
quired with  a  grin. 

Tweed  stirred  his  coffee  abstractedly,  and  Huntoon 
looked  pained. 

"Mr.  Tweed  and  I  have  been  busy,  very  busy,  to-day, 
and  have  been  absent  from  our  usual  haunts,"  the  latter 
explained  patiently.  "We — er — preferred  to  be  quiet 
this  evening  also,  so  we  invested  in  steak  and  things  and 
phoned  Clara  to  meet  us  at  the  flatlet.  We  felt  we  would 
like  to  converse  with  Dad  Ferriss  till  June  got  home." 

Mr.  Ferriss  looked  quietly  amused. 

"But  they  had  Mocky  phone  the  Press  Club,"  he  said 
gently.  "And  they  learned  there  were  a  number  of 
gentlemen  waiting  there  to  converse  with  them." 

"Yes,  we  have  friends — we  are  popular,"  Tweed  ad- 
mitted. "But  sometimes  one  yearns  for  the  simple  life — 
to  get  away  from  compliments  and  adulation." 


156  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"And  hard-muscled  Leaguers  yearning  for  exercise," 
added  Mr.  Ferriss. 

It  was  midnight  when  the  merry  brigade  departed, 
and  June  sat  down  for  an  hour's  work  at  her  desk.  In 
bed,  she  read  for  another  half  hour,  then  turned  out  the 
shaded  reading  light  and  drifted  comfortably  to  sleep. 

At  three  o'clock  she  was  awakened  by  the  phone,  and 
switching  on  the  light  she  hurried  to  her  desk. 

"Yes?    Who  is  it?"  she  called  anxiously. 

"That  you,  June?"  a  voice  asked. 

"Yes — what  is  the  matter?"  she  cried. 

"This  is  the  Press  Club — Huntoon,"  answered  the 
voice.  "Orin  and  I  came  for  our  mail,  and  we  remem- 
bered that  we  had  forgotten  to  ask  how  you  were." 

"For  the  love  of  all  the  saints !"  Miss  Ferriss 

choked.  "Wayne  Huntoon,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me 

you  waked  me  out  of  a  sound  sleep  just  to  ask '! 

Oh,  I  hope  you  two  will  die  of  indigestion !  I  hope  that 
sirloin  will  give  you  both  appendicitis !  I  hope " 

"There,  honey  lamb  chile!  Go  back  to  its  ikkle 
beddy-bye  then,  so  it  shall.  Rock-a-bye,  baby,  in  the 
tree  top " 

Miss  Ferriss's  receiver  went  home  with  a  snap  that 
indicated  dire  things  to  come,  and  she  thumped  her  pil- 
low with  an  indignant  fist.  The  light  was  switched  off 
and  peace  reigned  once  more  in  the  flatlet. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

WHEN  spring  came  "the  dad"  was  feebler.  A 
long,  hot  summer  in  the  City  was  not  to  be 
thought  of.  June  studied  the  ivory-white,  too-calm  face 
with  miserable  eyes,  and  made  desperate  by  what  she 
saw  there,  she  consulted  Authority.  Authority  nodded 
ominously  and  promptly  ordered  a  country  suburb  where 
lived  another  Authority  who  could  watch. 

"He — John  Orth — is  a  man  we  hear  from,  and  are 
glad  to  hear  from,  every  little  while.  Get  a  place  near 
him,  and  if  anything  can  be  done,  he  will  do  it. 

Two  weeks  later  June  had  settled  their  various  be- 
longings in  a  vine-covered  cabin  on  the  edge  of  Fern- 
cliff,  near  enough  to  the  City  to  see  its  sky-line  and 
feel  the  vibration  of  its  restlessness. 

There  were  ferns  and  there  was  a  cliff,  but  that  was 
the  other  side  of  the  village.  And  the  other  side  of  the 
village  was  where  "the  quality"  lived — as  June  called 
them.  The  Ferriss  cabin  faced  a  wooded  road  and  just 
beyond  the  bend  were  several  factories,  so  rents  were 
moderate  in  June's  vicinity. 

A  weekly  trip  to  the  City  kept  her  in  touch  with  her 
chiefs,  her  expenses  were  light,  and  the  change  a  for- 
tunate one  in  every  way. 

The  stars  helped  them  move  out,  and  approved.  Be- 
sides a  very  large  and  rather  theatrically  rural  Inn 
over  by  the  cliff,  where  guests  dressed  for  dinner  and 
for  the  hops  that  were  supposed  to  be  informal,  there 
were  several  less  imposing  inns  where  Bohemia  fore- 
gathered when  the  heat  of  the  City  drove  them  away. 


158  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

And  the  Ferriss  cabin,  as  was  the  case  with  the  Fer- 
riss  flatlet,  proved  a  handy  place  to  have  round.  A 
big  fireplace  in  the  living  room  flared  out  promptly  at 
the  least  excuse  of  a  cool  evening,  and  June's  devotion 
to  burning  pine-knots  found  favour  with  the  elect.  Here 
affairs  of  state  were  gravely  discussed  and  weird  and 
wonderful  brews  carefully  concocted ;  scenarios  for  com- 
ing plays  were  threshed  over  and  plots  of  novels  dis- 
sected. 

Away  from  the  City,  June,  to  her  own  surprise,  found 
her  work  easier  and  better.  She  discovered  that  she 
gained  by  the  perspective — type  and  scenes  took  on  values 
she  missed  when  too  close  to  them.  The  tragedies  had 
become  a  blur  of  tragedy  from  which  she  turned  to  the 
respite  she  now  found  with  sudden  and  desperate  eager- 
ness. Her  own  battle  against  odds  had  wearied  her 
dangerously,  mentally  and  physically,  and  rendered  her 
comprehension  of  the  battling  around  her  mercilessly 
acute. 

The  help  given — settlement  work,  charity,  Salvation 
Army,  personal  effort — all  were  so  appallingly  inade- 
quate. The  sardonic  humour  of  the  feather  duster  and 
the  ocean  thrust  its  Gorgon-grin  everywhere,  to  chill 
enthusiasm  into  dismay. 

Against  trips  sea  of  misery  and  vice  and  disease, 
born  in  dead  centuries  and  fed  on  living  weaknesses 
and  appetites,  of  what  avail  church,  science,  altruism,  the 
heartbreak  of  "benefits  forgot" !  History  but  accentu- 
ated the  hugeness  of  misery  and  the  futility  of  allevia- 
tion. Civilisation  but  cracked  like  a  cheap  veneer  at  the 
first  touch  of  primal  passions.  The  Hague  but  crumpled 
like  a  toy  of  pasteboard  when  the  primeval  Brute  smelt 
blood  and  tasted  war. 

Was  there  an  edifice  in  the  building  for  which  there 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  159 

was  a  Plan?  Had  the  race  a  Goal?  Had  the  game  a 
Prize?  Had  the  spirit  a  Destiny?  Had  the  soul  a 
God? 

June,  sitting  on  the  doorstep  of  the  little  cabin,  grate- 
ful for  the  quiet  darkness  athrill  with  the  myriad  voices 
of  insect  life,  looked  up  at  the  purple  mystery  of  the 
star-powdered  sky  in  a  wonder  in  which  her  life  seemed 
ever  sinking  deeper.  What  was  it  for,  this  Blind  Man's 
Buff  into  which  Birth  pitched  us  from  one  mystery, 
and  from  which  Death  pitched  us  to  another? 

For  every  puzzle  but  Life  there  was  an  answer.  But 
to  the  great  puzzle  of  Life  there  had  never  been  an 
answer  of  any  kind  whatever.  Religionists  had  dreamed 
dreams  and  seers  had  seen  visions,  science  had  explained 
and  philosophy  had  apologised,  physics  had  dissected  and 
metaphysics  had  dilated.  Stoics  had  met  death  as  an 
enemy  and  smiling  Epicureans  had  met  death  as  a 
friend — all  had  guessed  and  proved  and  refuted  and 
stumbled  against  a  stone  in  the  end.  What  was  it  for, 
and  why? 

It  was  not  worth  the  candle,  philosophy  admitted. 
It  was  discipline,  and  the  end  was  doubt,  isaid  the 
Church.  Poetry  cried  "Why  do  we  toil,  the  roof  and 
crown  of  things? — and  make  perpetual  moan!"  And 
Art,  hungry  and  pilloried,  finds  Life  with  eyes  that  see 
not  and  with  ears  that  hear  not,  till  it  crawls  into  the 
grave  on  skeleton  knees,  and  Midas  wakes  at  last  to  pay 
toll  to  the  fat-paunched  Dealer. 

What  was  it  for? 

June,  in  the  breathless  dark  of  the  spring  night,  with 
the  lost,  lonely  note  of  a  night  bird  troubling  the  peace 
of  it  all,  felt  her  own  loneliness  closing  around  her — the 
individual  and  universal  loneliness  of  Carlyle's  "How 
lonely  is  every  one  in  this  wide  charnel  of  the  universe !" 


160  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

The  man  sleeping  peacefully  in  the  cabin  drifted  as 
peacefully  on  his  sea  of  dreams  by  day.  In  them  she 
had  no  part  and  to  draw  him  from  them  was  an  effort 
and  success  brief.  Vagabondia  gave  her  the  very  good 
friends  that  Vagabondians  are,  but  friends  are  not  the 
friend,  the  other  self  with  whom  silence  is  more  eloquent 
than  speech,  sweeter  than  music,  dearer  than  gifts. 

The  dolce  far  niente  of  the  Island  had  given  her  love 
that  laughed  and  danced  as  lightly  as  a  piping  faun 
through  the  soft  green  of  spring  woods.  And  she  had 
as  laughingly  and  lightly  let  it  go. 

In  the  City,  after  a  long  night  when  she  and  Dr. 
Moore  had  locked  horns  with  Death  and  fought  inch 
by  inch  for  a  woman's  life,  they  stood  on  the  high  front 
steps  in  the  grey  dawn,  haggard  faced,  but  smiling.  And 
the  physician  had  taken  her  hands  in  his  and  over  his 
haggard  face  had  come  a  look  that  hurt  her. 

"June— *— !"  he  said.     "June !" 

And  June's  eyes,  and  the  pain  in  them,  had  answered. 
She  loved  him,  but  Love  was  different,  she  knew.  Love's 
name  stands  for  so  many  loves,  till  the  love  comes — if 

it  do .  And  if  it  did  not  come,  she  would  have  no 

lesser  love.  The  world — poor  world! — contented  itself 
with  the  masquerade  that  it  called  love — the  makeshifts 
and  substitutes  that  called  themselves  by  love's  name  for 
expediency,  for  price. 

And  June  looked  at  the  sorry  carnival  with  its  shabby 
cotton  masks  with  a  pitiless  disdain  that  was,  after  all, 
reluctantly  pitiful. 

To-night  in  the  darkness  her  arms  lay  quietly  on  her 
knees,  her  hands  drooping  with  interlaced  fingers.  But 
in  the  eyes  lifted  to  the  great  Mystery  written  in  pow- 
dered silver  across  the  fathomless  roof  of  the  world,  her 
spirit  stretched  out  arms  to  the  eternal  things  that  are 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  161 

hidden.  It  was  the  self  that  called  for  that  other  self 
without  whom  the  whole  world  and  its  teeming  millions 
was  barren  and  echoing,  and  a  desolation. 

The  interest  of  her  work  held  her  and  she  responded 
with  willingness  to  its  imperious  demands.  But  often 
brain  and  body  answered  with  flagging  strength  to  the 
steady  call,  and  when  vitality  ebbed,  the  little  caustic 
sparkle  that  made  her  airy  and  daring  sketches  unique 
was  lacking. 

This  was  a  canker-fear  that  did  not  sleep,  and  hours 
came,  as  now  when  she  sat  alone  with  the  night  and 
its  pulsating  mystery,  when  she  wondered  wearily  if  it 
was  worth  while  to  watch  for  the  lode-star.  Hands 
clever  and  capable  offered  the  nearer  lamp  of  oil,  that 
was  bright  and  warm  and  comfortable.  Its  light  would 
mean  companionship  and  safety,  rest  for  brain  and  body, 
and  peace.  To  dream  of  the  star,  while  the  years  crawled 
on  knees  of  pain  to  age  and  utter  loneliness — it  was  the 
impractical  thing,  and  life  was  practical. 

With  tiredness  came  always  the  whisper — what's  the 
use?  June  Ferriss  visualised  the  whisper.  With  ana- 
lytical honesty,  she  did  not  spare  herself  and  frankly 
faced  the  cowardice  as  she  would  a  toad,  and  studied  its 
ugliness  with  calm  eyes.  She  knew  she  would  have  no 
criticism  to  fear  but  her  own.  Her  world  would  ap- 
plaud a  sensible  marriage.  It  always  did.  But  June 
was  the  daughter  of  her  father,  and  neither  cared  very 
much  for  the  opinion  of  that  large  and  nebulous  author- 
ity given  as  "the  world."  And  as  her  own  criticism  of 
the  underlying  motive  in  all  she  did  was  always  pitilessly 
keen,  June  Ferriss  knew  that  with  the  lamp  she  must 
accept  the  little  toad  with  its  mocking  eyes,  whatever 
respectabilities  she  might  muster  in  extenuation. 

Under  the  darkness  of  a  big  maple,  her  rustic  gate 


1 62  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

opened  and  a  white-flannelled  figure  came  up  the 
gravelled  walk.  It  was  Graydon  Mendoza — Gray  Men- 
doza,  he  was  called — promoter,  dilettante,  and  a  guest  at 
the  Cliff  Inn. 

June  did  not  move  as  he  swung  his  muscular  body  with 
easy  grace  down  on  the  step  just  below  her,  and  very 
gently  gathered  the  still,  white  hands  into  his  own. 

His  healthily  tanned  face  could  be  clearly  seen  in  the 
light  of  the  stars,  and  June  looked  down  at  it  with  a 
certain,  new  curiosity.  Dark  hair  was  thrust  back  from 
a  broad  brow  by  impatient  fingers,  dark  eyes  sombrely 
restless,  square  jaw,  a  well-set  head  on  broad  shoulders 
— these  she  saw  with  a  sense  of  artistic  satisfaction. 
Virility,  strength,  a  splendid  masculinity  were  shown  by 
the  easy  power  of  the  athletic  body  and  the  clear  skin 
where  the  tan  changed  to  healthily  tinged  white  at  the 
base  of  the  throat. 

June  freed  one  hand  and  drew  her  finger-tip  slowly 
down  over  brow  and  face  and  throat,  where  the  soft 
collar  rolled  back  over  the  loosely  knotted  scarf.  The 
perfect  health  that  emanated  from  him  enveloped  her, 
and  she  yielded  to  it  gratefully.  She  was  tired,  and 
life  fretted  with  burden  and  complexity,  and  this  man, 
close  to  her,  rested  her. 

The  hand  with  its  exploring  finger  returned  to  its 
mate,  and  Mendoza  closed  his  own  strong  fingers  over 
them  and  lifted  their  whiteness  against  his  lips.  Leaning 
close  to  her  with  his  elbow  on  the  step  against  her  knee, 
he  passed  one  arm  around  her  body,  and  she  could  feel 
the  quickened,  irregular  vibration  of  his  heart.  It  stirred 
her  pulses  to  an  answering,  troubled  quickness,  and  she 
lifted  her  face  to  the  cool  night  breeze  with  a  sharply 
indrawn  breath. 

The  dark  face  against  her  shoulder  pressed  closer  and 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  163 

Mendoza's  lips  burned  against  the  thin  folds  of  her 
gown. 

"I  love  you "  The  whisper  scorched  fiercely  up 

against  her  throat.  "White  woman,  I  love  you — I  love 
you—" 

He  drew  her  head  down  till  her  cheek  lay  against  his 
temple,  where  the  knotted  artery  throbbed. 

"White  woman,  I  love  you — I  love  you — — " 

June  lifted  her  head  suddenly  and  drew  back,  her 
two  hands  pressed  against  his  face.  He  laughed  harshly 
as  he  dragged  the  protesting  hands  down  to  his  lips  and 
kissed  them  roughly,  then  looked  up  at  her  with  eyes  that 
burned  into  hers  through  the  soft  twilight  of  the  night. 

"English  is  a  poor  thing,  after  all,  isn't  it?  What 
have  the  lovers  of  history  said  to  the  women  who  touched 
them  to  madness  with  their  delicate  hands?  Have  they 
said  anything  more  than  that?  I  love  you — it  is  the 
briefest  and  the  final  eloquence,  isn't  it?  And  you  are 
going  to  love  me,  June.  I  will  make  you  care — you  care 
now,  if  you  would  admit  it " 

June  leaned  over  him  and  his  face  hardened  grimly  as 
she  shook  her  head. 

"You  cannot Help  me  to  be  honest!  You  can- 
not make  people  love.  You  do — move  me.  I  am  tired 
and  your  strength  rests  me.  But  that  is  all." 

"But  it  won't  be  all,"  he  said  curtly.  "I  am  not  a 
boy,  you  know.  When  a  man  reaches  forty  and  loses 
his  head  over  a  woman  like  you,  something  is  going  to 
happen." 

"But  don't  you  understand ! "  She  threw  out  her 

hands  with  a  little  despairing  gesture.  "I  want  to  care — 
I  would  be  glad  to  care — I  am  tired,  and  I  want  to  give 
up  and  turn  my  problems  over  to  you  and  not  think  about 


164  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

anything  any  more!  I  do  care — a  great  deal — but  there 
is  something  more — it  is  not  enough " 

"It  is  enough  for  me — for  now."  His  voice  softened 
and  he  drew  her  back  into  the  curved  strength  of  his 
arm  very  gently.  "I  want  you  to  give  me  yourself  and 
your  problems,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me.  I  will  make 
you  love  me,  and  I  can  be  patient." 

Perhaps — why  not?  Had  she  not  heard  women  say 
that  they  had  not  cared  much  at  the  time  they  mar- 
ried for  anything  but  the  wedding  finery  and  the  new 
dignities  that  marriage  gave?  Love  came  after,  they 
said.  It  began  with  just  respect  and  affection  and  was 
nothing  extreme  and  therefore  dangerous.  And  the 
tranquil  tide  had  deepened  quietly  into  the  stronger  tide 
of  mutual  aims  and  interests  and  was  quite  satisfactory 
and  "wore  well." 

That  was  enough  for  so  many — why  fret  over  the 
shaded  distinctions  in  a  world  where  life  required  more 
than  anything  the  qualities  that  "wore  well" ! 

On  the  pebbled  walk  that  gleamed  whitely  in  the  dim- 
ness, a  small  object  moved  without  a  sound.  It  was 
hardly  more  than  a  dark  spot  that  changed  from  place 
to  place  as  softly  as  a  shadow,  but  June  watched  it  with 
a  frown. 

There  would  always  be  the  little,  soundless  shadow 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

FACING  Cliff  Inn,  Dr.  Kate  Stanley  had  her  office 
and  home.  Dr.  Kate  had  been  a  classmate  of  June's 
at  college,  and  a  frank  respect  for  each  other's  often 
differing  opinions  had  developed  into  a  firm  friendship 
and  warm  affection. 

Dr.  Stanley  had  very  critical  and  very  shrewd  eyes, 
much  given  to  suddenly  narrowing  behind  a  glittering 
pince-nez,  that  focused  her  speculative  gaze  with  dis- 
concerting effect  upon  her  vis-&-vis.  She  wore  sack 
coats  and  tailored  skirts  and  tailored  shirtwaists,  and  she 
also  wore  a  corset,  but  no  one  would  know  it.  Her  well- 
shaped  hands  were  generally  thrust  deep  into  the  pockets 
of  her  coat,  and  she  stood  solidly  on  her  two  heels  and 
gazed  at  the  world  with  disillusioned  but  philosophical 
amusement. 

She  had  gone  abroad  every  year  since  her  chin  had 
reached  the  rail  of  the  liner,  and  she  had  tired  of  that 
as  she  had  tired  of  a  good  many  things. 

June's  advent  in  the  suburb  she  hailed  with  satisfac- 
tion, and  June  told  her  she  was  the  peri  at  the  gate  of 
modernised,  all  conveniences,  Paradise. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that  Mendoza  man? 
Are  you  going  to  marry  him?"  she  asked  one  morning. 
Doors  and  windows  were  open  to  the  summer  breeze, 
trees  and  shrubbery  were  swaying  and  rustling  and  er- 
ratic splotches  of  sunlight  played  across  the  floor.  June, 
at  her  big,  littered  desk,  was  touching  up  a  sketch,  glanc- 
ing out  now  and  then  at  Mr.  Perriss,  who  lay  in  a 

165 


166  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

steamer  chair  in  the  shade  of  a  big,  pattering  cotton- 
wood. 

Holding  two  fine  brushes  between  her  lips,  she  shook 
her  head. 

"Well,  there  are  brain-storm  symptoms.  If  you  don't 
marry  him  and  disillusion  him,  you  had  better  do  it 
some  other  way.  Mendoza  had  a  Spanish  father  and. 
that  strain  sho'  do  want  what  it  wants  when  it  wants  it," 
warned  Dr.  Stanley. 

June  leaned  over  her  desk  and  dropped  the  brushes 
into  a  bowl. 

"Don't  be  absurd.     How  do  you  like  my  dryad?" 

She  held  the  sketch  at  arm's  length  and  regarded  it 
with  much  satisfaction. 

"Her  left  leg's  out  of  whack — she  must  have  bumped 
her  knee.  Your  anatomy  needs  absent  treatment,  June 
Ferriss.  Why  don't  you  quit  a  while  and  brush  up?" 

"Who  wants  anatomy  in  syndicate  art?  Don't  be  a 
cat." 

"Cats  have  eyes  and  so  have  I.  How  long  is  it  since 
you  rested  from  work?  Your  nerves  are  jumpy  and 
your  bloom  of  youth  isn't  what  you  could  brag  about, 
and  if  you  had  any  sense,  which  you  haven't,  you  would 
get  out  there  with  Dad  Ferriss  and  eat  grass  for  a 
while." 

June  put  some  delicate  shading  on  the  knee  of  the 
offending  dryad  and  murmured  abstractedly,  "Oh,  I'm 

all  right .  There,  Praxiteles  himself  couldn't  do  a 

better  knee  than  that!  It's  a  dream." 

Dr.    Stanley  sniffed   disgustedly. 

"I  wonder  why  it  is  that  fools  of  women  all  belong 
to  two  classes — the  class  who  supply  doctors  and  sana- 
toria with  the  wherewithal,  and  the  other  class  who 
know  it  all  and  can't  be  told !  Mrs.  Vaughan  at  the  Inn 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  167 

is  getting  ready  for  her  fifth  operation.  She  has  the 
habit.  She  has  spent  money  on  everything  else  she  can 
think  of,  and  now  it's  Mills  and  his  Latin  labels.  If 
she  keeps  on  she  will  look  like  a  steamer  trunk  in  the 
'V  section.  Mills  looks  like  a  Greek  god  in  his  opera- 
tion togs,  and  she  seizes  every  new  'Itis  that  is  made  in 
Germany  to  keep  herself  within  the  orbit  of  his  god-like 
ministrations." 

"Try  some  fluid  extract  of  dandelion,  Kathryn — aw- 
fully good  for  the  liver,"  June  murmured  soothingly. 

"Never  mind  my  internal  economy — you  may  think 
you  can  burn  the  candle  at  both  ends  and  get  away  with 
it,  but  I  happen  to  be  talking  in  my  own  bailiwick,  and 
you  are  going  to  turn  up  your  toes  one  of  these  days, 
just  as  sure  as  God  made  little  apples." 

With  her  doubled  fists  jammed  into  her  pockets,  the 
physician  stood  in  front  of  the  desk  and  glowered  down 
at  the  artist. 

"Are  you  broke  ?"  she  snapped. 

June  laughed  and  shook  her  head. 

"I  have  oodles  of  money — almost  all  the  bills  paid — 
all  serene  on  the  Potomac." 

"Well,  then,  listen  to  me,"  said  Dr.  Stanley  seriously. 
"You  are  keyed  up,  and  if  you  will  just  use  ordinary 
common  sense  you  will  know  that  an  unrelieved  tension 
means  that  something  is  bound  to  break.  You  have  not 
stopped  once  since  the  smash.  You  have  not  only  not 
rested,  but  there  is  something  the  matter  with  you.  I 
am  not  a  fool,  and  I  don't  need  an  X-ray  to  read  capital 
letters.  What  is  the  matter? — and  will  you  stop  for  a 
while?" 

June  stared  at  the  brush  in  her  fingers  for  a  long  mo- 
ment, then  her  head  lifted  and  she  smiled. 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  that  can  be  helped — and 


i68  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

a  little  later — yes,  I  can  manage  a  week  or  two,  easily, 
I  think.  Let's  have  some  tea,  nicht  wahr?" 

Dr.  Stanley  made  the  tea  in  disapproving  silence. 
When  the  little  kettle  bubbled  its  steaming  stream  over 
the  tea-ball,  she  set  June's  cup  at  her  elbow  and,  still 
in  silence,  cut  some  lemon  slices. 

June  sipped  her  tea  meekly,  but  raised  a  quizzical  eye- 
brow over  the  rim  of  the  cup. 

"Say  it! — may  as  well  get  it  out  of  your  system,  you 
know,"  she  said  politely.  The  doctor  drank  her  tea  with 
deliberation,  then  looked  at  June. 

"Why  don't  you  marry  Mendoza?  You  care  for  him 
— he  is  a  somebody  and  has  grey  matter  in  his  head. 
He  has  done  things,  and  he  is  going  to  do  greater  things. 
He  is  worth  having  'round  just  to  look  at — better  look- 
ing than  Adonis  and  the  rest  of  that  outfit.  Money, 
position,  a  gentleman — and  dippy,  quite  dippy,  over  you. 
Why  don't  you  marry  him?" 

With  her  arms  stretched  out  on  her  desk,  June  stared 
unseeingly  at  the  flickering  sun-patches  on  the  floor. 
After  a  long  silence,  she  said  slowly :  "That  is  what  I, 
too,  am  wondering,  Kate.  Why?  I  do  care  for  him. 
I  am  glad  when  he  conies,  I  miss  him  when  he  is  not 
here,  he  is  good  to  look  at,  and  I  like  his  arms  around 
me.  They  are  strong  arms,  and  masterful  and  gentle — 
oh,  he  is  everything  that  a  woman  wants !  I  know  that. 
But  I " 

Her  chin  dropped  to  her  interlocked  fingers. 

''Well?"  enquired  the  other,  with  dry  interest. 

"Well — it  isn't  well.  There  is  a  something  lacking. 
There  is  an  appeal,  mental  and  physical, — but  it  isn't 
the  great  appeal,  Kate.  And  there  is  always  the  knowl- 
edge that  there  could  be  the  great  appeal.  There  may 
never  be — oh,  I  admit  that !  I  am  dissecting  the  butter- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  169 

fly,  but  if  I  didn't  now,  I  would  later,  and  that  would 
be  ghastly." 

"You  just  had  a  birthday,  you  know,"  she  was  re- 
minded mildly,  and  she  laughed. 

"I  know.  I  couldn't  play  ingenues  like  Mocky.  And 
the  mother  instinct  is  there,  and  it  bites — hard,  Kate! 
I  have  rounded  up  a  half-dozen  of  the  mill  settlement 
youngsters  whose  mothers  work,  and  I  have  them  in 
my  corral  back  of  the  cabin  days.  I  sketch  out  there 
and  tell  them  stories  and  manage  them  generally.  They 
help  me  and  I  help  them — but  I  want  one  of  my  own. 
Of  my  own!  I  wake  at  night  with  its  face  in  my  throat 
and  its  hand  groping  across  my  lips.  It  is  my  baby  and 
it  is  somewhere  and  I  want  it !  But  there  is  a  love  that 
I  want  more.  There  is  a  love  that  can  reach  to  the  core 
of  my  heart.  It  is  a  love  of  the  mind  and  of  the  senses — 
and  of  that  something  else  that  we  can't  define,  but  that 
touches  the  hem  of  divinity.  Perhaps  I  won't  find  it. 
Perhaps  I  will  let  the  loves  of  these  men  pass,  and  life 
will  give  me  nothing  in  the  end.  But  just  because  I 
know  that  it  could  give  me  my  desire  if  it  would,  I  dare 
not  take  the  lesser  love." 

The  woman  physician  looked  at  her  with  eyes  that 
were  too  wise,  and  that  were  tired. 

"And  that  way  madness  lies,"  she  quoted  grimly. 

June  lifted  her  shoulders. 

"Che  sara,  sara,"  she  replied.  "If  I  had  not  suffered, 

perhaps  I  would  ask  less.  But  I  have  suffered "  She 

clenched  her  hands  suddenly  and  swung  around  to  face 
the  other  squarely. 

"I  have  suffered,  Kate  Stanley.  And  I  need  not  have 
suffered  had  I  taken  the  substitute  course  that  I  could 
have  taken.  I  could  have  bought  peace  and  ease  and 
protection  with  the  girl-prettiness  that  I  had  to  buy  them 


170  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

with.  It  was  a  legitimate  and  legal  sale.  But  I  didn't. 
The  pain  of  body  and  hell  of  mind  that  I  have  known 
since  you  and  I  packed  our  text-books  have  been  a 
crucible.  And  for  that  crucible  I  want  my  all,  or  I  want 
nothing.  I  have  paid — paid ! — for  the  best,  the  highest. 
I  will  take  nothing  cheap.  I  don't  want  the  gratification 
of  the  mind  and  the  body — I  want  the  woman  of  me 
mated.  If  that  may  be,  there  is  a  God  over  this  miser- 
able mess  of  things  that  man  instituted  and  called  mar- 
riage. If  it  is  not  to  be,  there  is  no  God.  If  our  bodies 
are  to  breed  and  our  souls  starve,  there  is  no  Design.  We 
are  just  animals.  But  I  am  going  to  give  that  possible 
God  a  chance." 

Dr.  Stanley  shook  her  head. 

"Phaeton  and  the  sun — and  you  are  going  to  smash 
your  chariot  likewise.  To  get  that  sort  of  love  would 
be  to  arch  the  sun,  and  we  are  mortals,  worms  of  earth, 
my  dear  young  Christian  friend.  If  the  masses  waited 
for  that  sort  of  marriage,  the  parsons  would  starve 
faster  than  they  are  starving  now — and  God  knows  that 
is  fast  enough,"  added  the  doctor  solemnly. 

"The  customs  for  the  masses  never  can  be  made  to 
fit  individuals,"  said  June.  "That  is  what  is  the  matter 
with  legislation.  We  make  laws,  civic  and  social,  on 
one  last  and  expect  them  to  be  worn  by  feet  of  a  billion 
shapes.  The  grocer  in  the  village  picked  out  Mrs.  Moss 
with  the  same  care  and  deliberation  that  he  uses  in  select- 
ing a  clerk.  He  told  me  all  about  it.  And  Mrs.  Moss 
was  glad  to  leave  the  mill  and  marry  the  thrifty  grocer. 
The  law  and  the  grocery  fill  their  cup  of  earthly  desires. 
But  they  wouldn't  fill  mine,  you  know." 

"N-no,  they  wouldn't,"  Dr.  Stanley  admitted  sadly. 
"You  have  hitched  your  little  wagon  to  a  star,  and  by 
the  beard  of  the  prophet  there  are  going  to  be  doin's. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  171 

As  your  friend  and  medical  advisor,  I  would  urge  that 
you  marry  Mendoza.  But  you  won't,  of  course.  That 
is  the  reason  I  like  you.  You  are  an  extremist,  and  a 
little  mad,  and  while  I  do  not  approve  of  you,  you  do 
not  bore  me.  You  have  not  the  good  sense  of  my  other 
patients  of  your  admirable  sex,  but  I  admit  that  they 
frequently  do  bore  me — to  tears.  You  are  a  real  woman, 
you  see,  instead  of  being  a  perfect  lady.  And  you  will 
find  that  a  real  woman  will  have  things  made  extremely 
interesting  for  her  by  the  ladies,  God  bless  'em.  When 
you  make  your  rude  remarks  about  the  marriage  job, 
you  touch  them  on  a  tender  place.  The  marriage  job 
is  about  the  easiest  kind  of  way  to  earn  one's  living, 
and  it  is  always  respectable.  About  eight  of  ten  of  the 
ladies  marry  for  this  reason,  and  dissipate  mildly  in  pink 
teas  and  auction  bridge.  And  they  feel  sorry  for  the 
unwise  virgins  who  let  their  first  offers  go  by,  because 
they  wanted  love,  and  have  to  clerk  in  stores  and  play 
symphonies  on  typewriters  for  their  job.  It  is  all  very 
convenient  and  quite  all  right  and  eminently  proper,  and 
as  long  as  the  ladies  are  satisfied  it  is  nobody's  else 
business.  Or  it  wouldn't  be  if  it  were  not  that  they  bear 
children.  And  God  help  the  children!" 

"Ah — the  children! "  June  breathed. 

"Yes,  there's  the  rub.  Nature  isn't  a  perfect  lady, 
you  know,  and  she  doesn't  care  a  flip  about  respectability. 
Animals  obey  the  'call,'  and  mate  with  the  mate  they 
want.  And  in  consequence  they  breed  without  degen- 
erating, unless  we  mix  in  and  domesticate  them.  When 
we  do,  they  become  polygamous.  In  the  wild  state  the 
lady  sticks  to  her  chosen  lord  and  he  to  her.  But  we, 
who  substitute  respectability  for  the  'call,'  do  degen- 
erate. Children  born  of  expediency  are  not  the  kind 
that  set  the  Thames  on  fire.  We  have  a  good  many  of 


172  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

them  in  public  institutions  and  private  sanatoria.  And 
at  home  they  are  not  noted  for  their  beauty  nor  bril- 
liancy. That  is  where  Nature  plays  havoc  with  the  laws 
and  the  prophets.  Nature  and  the  law  have  always  been 
at  war.  We  have  kept  putting  fresh  rivets  in  the  law 
to  make  it  tighter,  but  we  can't  get  the  harness  over 
Nature's  head  and  she  continues  to  get  even  with  us.  It's 
a  bad  business." 

"Yes,  it's  a  bad  business,"  said  June  slowly.  "And 
they — poor,  loveless,  heart-hungry  women! — it  is  bad 
for  them.  After  all,  what  else  can  they  do?  You  are 
brutal  about  it,  Kate  Stanley,  but  as  you  say  yourself, 
it  is  marriage  or  toil — long,  long  toil  that  drags  like  a 
lengthened  chain  to  dreary  and  lonely  old  age.  Can  you 
blame  them  for  accepting  the  poor  substitute  for  love, 
after  all?" 

"Heavens,  no — they  have  to  live  with  the  man,  I  don't ! 
But  it's  the  fatal  'ten  years  later'  that  is  raising  particular 
mischief  with  things.  The  other  man  or  the  other  woman 
comes  on  the  scene  along  about  that  time,  and  that's 
where  the  action  of  the  play  really  begins.  The  mag- 
nanimous husband  who  steps  aside  when  the  woman 
meets  the  right  man  is  the  exception,  not  the  rule.  And 
the  woman,  tenacious  of  the  marriage  job  aforesaid,  who 
is  willing  to  put  the  happiness  of  the  man  before  her  own 
comfort,  is  a  still  rarer  exception.  A  young  girl  who 
would  hound  her  fiance  to  death  because  she  found  he 
did  not  love  her,  would  be  stigmatized  as  brazen,  bold 
and  bad.  But  modesty  and  good  manners  seem  to  die 
with  the  marriage  service,  and  the  modest  girl  becomes  at 
once  the  married  shrew.  She  hasn't  the  man's  heart, 
but  she  has  a  mortgage  on  his  body  and  she  hangs  on 
to  that  body  with  every  claw  set.  The  man  who  has 
merely  regarded  her  with  puzzled  and  regretful  awaken- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  173 

ing  could  be  held  as  her  friend,  and  as  her  very  good 
friend.  I  have  seen  one  or  two  such  cases  in  my  prac- 
tice, thank  God! — that  have  helped  keep  alive  some  re- 
spect for  my  sex.  But  only  one  or  two.  The  others 
hang  on,  their  womanhood  and  self-respect  thrown  to 
the  four  winds — and  the  man's  friendship  turns  to  loath- 
ing." 

"Yet  you  cannot  make  them  see  themselves  as  their 
world  sees  them!" 

"No,  they  won't  see  themselves.  But  how  women 
who  are  supposed  to  be  refined  can  endure  the  ignominy 
of  a  union  that  is  only  physical — that  has  degenerated 
to  an  association  whose  nights  leave  memories  that  sicken 
in  the  clean  light  of  day,  is  beyond  my  comprehension. 
I  have  lost  paying  patients  because  I  could  not  stand  their 
hysterical  cattishness,  and  flatly  told  them  to  pull  their 
decency  around  them  and  try  to  be  women,  not  barnacles 
and  parasites.  That  sort  of  morality  is  worse  than 
the  immorality  of  the  red  light.  The  latter  is  at  least 
what  it  seems." 

"And  they  use  the  children,  poor  little  souls ! — as  their 
excuse.  The  children,  with  their  sensitive,  psychic  na- 
tures, quivering  like  naked  wires  to  every  vibration  of 
inharmony  in  the  home !"  June  rose  from  the  desk,  her 
hands  outflung  in  sudden,  still  anger,  and  went  to  the 
window  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  Through  its 
vines  she  looked  out  at  the  laughing  little  crew  playing 
under  her  trees. 

"It  was  the  first  thing  that  I  can  remember  being  con- 
scious of,"  she  went  on  in  a  low  voice,  its  toneless  calm 
more  bitter  than  any  bitterness.  "I  felt  the  discordance 
— I  read  the  hardness  in  my  mother's  eyes,  the  dead 
weariness  in  my  father's.  They  lived  together  'for  my 
sake' — good  God !  And  before  I  was  old  enough  to  know 


174  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

why,  I  was  learning  to  keep  my  tears  back  and  my  griefs 
to  myself.  The  air  held  unshed  tears  and  masked  grief, 
and  it  bore  down  my  child  heart  like  a  pall.  I  learned  not 
to  cry  because  my  sorrows  seemed  intrusive  in  that  tragic 
drama  of  pretence,  of  smiles  that  mocked,  of  pleasantries 
that  lied.  I  learned  not  to  cry  so  successfully  that  one 
night  when  I  neared  womanhood,  when  a  sorrow  bore  me 
down  till  my  heart  seemed  wrenched  on  a  rack,  I  went 
down  on  my  knees  in  the  dark  with  my  face  on  my  arms, 
and  prayed,  if  there  was  a  God,  to  cry!  Because  I 
couldn't  cry.  I  prayed — but  I  didn't  cry,"  she  added 
dully.  "The  tears  would  not  come." 

Dr.  Stanley  nodded  grimly. 

"Yes,  you  were  a  cheerful  example  of  that  ghastly 
fallacy  that  is  centre-staged  every  day — 'the  home  must 
be  held  together  for  the  child' !  So  they  hold  the  home 
together  and  incidentally  breed  a  few  more  children  of 
the  body." 

The  physician  laughed  and  clasped  her  hands  behind 
her  head. 

"Lord,  lord !  How  we  do  use  those  helpless  little  lives 
as  a  cloak  for  our  own  baseness  and  meannesses!  We 
bring  them  into  the  world  without  consulting  their  wishes 
in  the  matter,  and  then  we  begin  to  present  them  with  our 
laws.  We  start  by  damning  them  if  they  die  unbaptised. 
That  is  one  of  the  'eternal  truths'  that  we  have  lately 
changed.  But  if  the  poor  babies  we  committed  to  hell 
before  we  changed  the  eternal  truth  have  been  rescued, 
or  not,  we  are  not  informed.  Then  we  brand  them  with 
the  bar  sinister  by  'borning'  the  helpless  mite  without 
going  through  a  ceremony — any  one  of  several  hun- 
dred. And  we  start  it  with  our  own  sins,  weaknesses  and 
maladies,  and  whip  it  because  it  has  them. 

"We  have   built   up   an   enormous   industrial   system 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  175 

that  is  our  boast  on  the  narrow,  tired  shoulders  of  our 
young  girls,  and  youth  will  soon  be  marked  in  the  dic- 
tionaries as  'obsolete.'  Our  public  schools  must  be  voca- 
tional— the  children  must  be  trained  to  work  before  their 
bodies  have  been  trained  to  stand  upright.  They  get  the 
barest  rudiments  of  knowledge,  are  whisked  through  the 
grade  school  and  whisked  out  again  to  earn  money.  They 
are  still  children,  but  we  put  them  into  the  forcing 
houses  that  we  call  stores  and  factories  and  offices,  and 
they  have  given  us  a  queer  race  of  flat-breasted  white- 
faced,  premature  women.  They  have  children's  bodies, 
but  they  wear  fashion-plate  clothes.  They  have  little 
plastic  faces  that  are  pitifully  ignorant  and  startlingly 
wise.  They  know  too  much  and  not  enough." 

"And  they  are  forgetting  how  to  laugh !  Kate,  where 
are  the  girls  who  used  to  sing  and  dance  and  laugh? 
What  have  we  done  with  them?" 

"We  have  done  what  Japan  is  doing,  my  dear,"  replied 
Dr.  Stanley.  "We,  the  Christian  people,  have  taught 
Japan,  the  heathen,  that  children  are  a  gold  mine — that 
girls  make  riches.  And  from  us  Japan  has  learned  to  coin 
its  youth  into  gold.  I  don't  know  who  is  to  blame — the 
socialists  will  tell  you,  perhaps.  But  we  are  too  poor 
to  have  youth  any  more.  We  cannot  wait  for  bodies  to 
mature,  for  minds  to  take  shape  and  become  steady.  We 
are  too  poor,  honey!  The  day  of  doiley-making  under 
the  trees  after  the  dishes  are  washed  is  gone.  Great  Pan 
is  dead.  Progress  is  god.  Wealth  rules,  and  so  the 
world  is  poor.  The  world  wears  tiaras  of  precious  stones 
on  its  brow  and  it  rolls  like  a  triumphant  goddess  on  noise- 
less wheels  across  continents.  And  that  it  may  do  this, 
Youth,  who  once  laughed,  is  now  taught  silence  and 
decorum,  attention  and  efficiency.  Pan  is  dead — laughter 
and  song  and  colour  and  warmth  and  dancing  died  with 


176  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

the  god  of  the  woods  and  winds.  An  artificial  semblance 
of  this  joy  of  dead  years  is  shown  in  polite  society,  but 
the  'masses'  must  not  laugh.  When  young  girls  whisper 
the  little  nonsense  whispers  of  the  dawn  of  life  and 
love,  they  are  reproved  sharply  and  told  to  attend  to  busi- 
ness. We  are  making  them  attend  to  business,  my  dear. 
Oh,  yes,  it  is  an  age  of  wonderful  success!" 

The  physician  screwed  up  her  shrewd  eyes  and  grim- 
aced, then  continued  with  unctious  emphasis — 

"We  want  them  to  be  happy — dear  me,  yes!  But  we 
don't  want  them  to  laugh  in  the  factories  because  it  in- 
terferes with  work,  nor  in  the  office  because  it  isn't  busi- 
ness ethics,  nor  in  the  store  because  it  makes  the  nice 
customers  peevish,  nor  in  the  home  because  the  family 
is  nervous,  nor  on  the  street  because  it  isn't  proper.  With 
these  few  exceptions,  they  may  laugh  as  youth  is  meant 
to  laugh,  if  they  can  find  any  place  we  have  not  policed !" 

June,  once  more  busy  over  her  drawing  board,  quoted 
softly:  "Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping,  oh,  my 
brothers !" 

"Mrs.  Browning  was  a  poet,  my  dear,"  said  the  doctor 
briskly.  "What  do  poets  know  about  practical  matters? 
Tut,  tut  1" 

Peeling  off  her  soft  felt  Stetson  and  coat,  she  an- 
nounced that  she  was  going  to  get  dinner,  and  June's  pro- 
tests were  snappishly  overruled. 

"You  say  that  you  must  finish  those  alleged  drawings 
of  yours  this  evening,  so  if  you  will  make  a  stagger  at 
getting  the  joints  of  those  scantily  draped  female  persons 
of  yours  approximately  where  they  are  meant  to  be,  I 
will  get  a  dinner  that  will  make  Dad  Ferriss  sit  up  and 
take  notice." 

"He's  weaker,  Kate!" 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  177 

Dr.  Stanley  scowled  anxiously  as  she  rolled  her  shirt- 
sleeves above  her  elbows. 

"Yes,  he  is,"  she  admitted  shortly.  "I  wish  Dr.  Orth 
would  get  back  from  Berlin.  What  does  Carl  Goethe 
say?" 

"Dr.  Carl  says  there  is — a  chance,"  June  replied  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Well,  he  knows  Orth  and  surgery  better  than  any 
one  else  and  he  never  serves  out  fairy-tale  hopes  for  the 
sake  of  making  polite  conversation.  So  brace  up  and 
do  try  and  keep  some  of  your  good  looks.  You  are 
getting  spooky  and  it  doesn't  suit  your  style." 

June  was  still  working  when  Dr.  Stanley  left  and  that 
short  tempered  lady,  meeting  Dr.  Goethe  at  the  gate,  ex- 
pressed her  mind  in  a  manner  brief  but  to  the  point. 

When  he  entered  the  living  room,  June  looked  up  with 
a  bright  nod. 

"Exit  Xanthippe — enter  ^sculapius,  the  healer!"  she 
laughed.  "Kate  thinks  she  is  a  doctor,  but  she  isn't. 
She's  a  virago.  You  should  have  heard  her  giving  me 
what  for,  just  because  I  wouldn't  enter  the  holy  bonds 
of  matrimony!" 

Dr.  Carl  looked  at  her  with  keen  blue  eyes  that  were 
very  penetrating  and  very  kind. 

"Dr.  Kate's  tempers  are  a  weaker  woman's  tears,"  he 
said  in  his  quaint  German  way.  "She  worries  over  the 
father — and  you.  He  is  in  the  bedroom  ?" 

The  voices  of  the  two  men,  already  warm  friends, 
came  quietly  to  June's  ears  as  she  bent  over  the  board 
putting  in  the  finishing  strokes.  The  shaded  light  at  her 
left  sent  a  soft  effulgence  over  her  desk,  leaving  the  rest 
of  the  room  in  heavy  shadow.  Through  the  wide  open 
door  the  moonlight  now  flickered  on  the  floor  in  patches 
of  silver. 


178  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

It  was  quiet,  restful,  but  the  woman  at  the  desk  was 
listening  to  the  weak  voice  that  she  loved  and  that  she 
knew  was  growing  weaker,  and  in  her  white  face  there 
was  no  reflection  of  the  night's  great  peace. 

Laying  aside  the  little  brush  at  last,  she  stared  at  a 
packet  of  papers  held  by  a  rubber  band  in.  one  of  the 
cases  on  her  desk.  They  were  bills  that  meant  the  slow 
ploughing  of  a  water-logged  ship.  They  held  her  back 
and  they  held  her  down.  She  dared  not  relax  nor  rest. 

With  her  left  hand  doubled  into  a  fist  and  pressed 
into  her  side,  she  was  leaning  on  her  other  elbow  with  the 
knuckles  of  her  hand  against  her  lips  and  her  eyes  closed, 
when  Dr.  Goethe  returned. 

The  big  German  physician  studied  the  still  face  in 
silence  for  a  long  moment,  then  he  said  simply,  "It  is 
pretty  bad?" 

June  nodded  without  opening  her  eyes. 

Then  the  doctor  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"The  adhesions — we,  with  our  science,  can  do  nothing, 
you  see.  But  if  you  would  marry,  if  you  would  have  a 
child,  nature  would  in  that  way  readjust.  You  work,  and 
you  have  anxieties,  and  where  the  body  is  injured,  it  re- 
sents. And  so — the  pain!  If  you  would  only  mar- 
ry '• 

There  was  no  answer  from  the  quiet  figure  half  in 
the  light  of  the  lamp,  half  in  the  shadow  where  the  silver 
of  the  moon  touched  the  still  white  folds  of  her  gown. 

The  physician  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with 
bowed  head,  then  turned  to  the  couch,  drawing  up  a 
chair  beside  it  for  himself. 

"Come,  liebchen"  he  said  gently. 

The  white  draperies  swept  quickly  across  the  floor 
and  June  crouched  down  on  the  couch,  her  arms  across 
the  doctor's  knees  and  with  her  face  on  her  arms. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  179 

The  doctor's  big,  gentle  hand  smoothed  her  hair  with 
sure  touch  and  his  deep  voice  was  wonderfully  tender 
as  he  talked  to  her. 

"We  will  have  one  of  the  little  stories,  nicht  wahrf 
It  shall  be  about  the  Tannenbaum — about  the  little  tree, 
and  the  little  gold  heart.  The  little  tree  was  alone  in  the 
snow.  Its  companions  were  taken,  one  by  one,  by  joy- 
ous folk  for  their  Christmas  festival.  But  no  one  chose 
the  Tannenbaum,  it  was  so  small " 

The  old,  sweet  German  folk  tales  were  his  remedy  for 
the  woman  lying  prone  on  his  knees.  No  solace  of  re- 
ligion nor  philosophy  was  there  for  her  and  the  soul  of 
the  Vaterland  understood.  For  nerves  and  heart  quiver- 
ing like  an  overtuned  instrument  there  could  be  no  in- 
struction. And  so,  when  the  waters  rose  deep  and  bitter, 
Dr.  Carl  drew  the  head  with  its  smooth  coils  of  hair  down 
on  his  knees  and  told  her  of  the  Tannenbaum — of  the 
tree  left  lonely  in  the  snow  and  the  night,  and  the  little 
golden  heart 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

ONE  evening  the  Vagabondians  foregathered  at  the 
cabin  for  the  reading  of  a  new  play  by  Huntoon. 
June  was  relegated  to  the  couch,  where  she  lay  rest  fully 
among  her  cushions  and  surveyed  her  small  but  quite 
audible  court  with  amusedly  fond  eyes. 

Tweed  doubled  his  six  feet  four  on  the  couch  tailor- 
fashion  at  her  feet,  waved  his  favourite  long  "stogie"  in  a 
smoky  benison  and  told  the  playwright  to  proceed.  Miss 
Sherbourn,  Miss  Hazleton,  Dr.  Stanley,  Dicky,  the 
artist  and  Dr.  Carl,  glowering  benevolently  through  a 
big  cloud  of  smoke  from  his  priceless  meerschaum,  settled 
themselves  comfortably  and  ready  for  the  storm  of  crit- 
icism, suggestion,  argument  and  protest  that  the  occasion 
generously  promised.  Gray  Mendoza  sat  on  the  window 
sill,  his  splendid  head  thrown  back  against  the  frame, 
and  blew  silver  smoke  wreaths  to  twine  among  the  vine 
leaves. 

Huntoon  pulled  an  ottoman  forward  to  the  middle  of 
the  circle  and  shook  out  his  bundle  of  manuscript.  Then 
he  skimmed  over  cast  and  stage  set  for  the  first  scene 
and  with  the  wonderful  mastery  of  voice  that  had  car- 
ried his  fame  wide,  he  read  the  play. 

Silent  and  observantly  intent  his  audience  listened,  fol- 
lowing voice,  expression  and  little  significant  gesture  with 
quick  understanding  to  the  end.  Then  Huntoon  looked 
up  and  said,  "Well?"  His  wife  was  the  first  to  answer. 

"Should  not  your  woman  have  divorced  your  man  in 
the  second  act,  of  her  own  accord?  You  make  her  weak 
by  having  her  forced  into  it,"  she  objected. 

1 80 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  181 

"The  eternal  triangle — > — "  exclaimed  Tweed  doubt- 
fully. "Do  you  think  you  can  make  a  go  of  that  thread- 
bare three-cornered  tragedy  unless  you  strike  a  newer 
note — a  more  unique  solution?" 

"Oh,  it  is  dramatic  enough — but  your  political  plays  are 
stronger,  Wayne,"  said  June.  "Masculine  action  is  your 
metier,  and  you  are  bigger  there  than  in  your  society 
plays." 

Dr.  Carl  nodded. 

"He  is  bigger — yes.  But  it  is  a  question  of  which 
public  he  wishes  to  play  to.  His  political  plays  appeal 
to  the  intellect — his  others,  like  this,  make  more  money. 
The  great  public  wants  to  see  its  own  perplexities  acted 
out,  its  own  problems  illustrated.  Ibsen,  with  all  his 
subtlety,  still  reaches  the  public  because  he  held  up  the 
mirror.  He  belittled  them,  and  cut  their  weakness 
with  whips  and  corroded  their  shallow  sophistries  with 
acid.  And  they  cringed,  but  they  went  back  again.  Self 
study  is  always  interesting.  The  pen  dipped  in  the 
pricked  vein  will  always  write  words  that  will  be  read. 
Ibsen's  solutions  did  not  solve — whose  do!  But  he  dis- 
sected with  a  sure  touch  and  we  follow  the  little  knives 
that  fascinate  even  while  they  stab." 

And  so  the  war  was  on.  Line  by  line  the  play  was 
fought  through,  its  logic  tested,  its  "business"  whittled, 
its  sentiment  weighed.  Huntoon  defended,  protested, 
conceded,  made  annotations  on  the  margins,  scratched  out 
and  interlined. 

Big  mentally,  he  valued  at  its  full  worth  the  warm 
storm  of  criticism  and  objection  that  swept  his  play 
back  and  forth  as  its  small  first  audience  sat  in  judgment. 

Later  they  would  praise.  Opening  night  they  would 
be  there  to  pay  tribute.  Always  they  would  glow  with  a 


1 82  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

warm  and  personal  pride  in  the  finished  artistry  of  this, 
their  brother  and  well-beloved. 

But  to-night  they  were  critics,  searching  with  pitiless 
eyes  for  flaw  and  weakness,  for  the  smallest  crevice 
where  danger  lurked.  And  this  frank  custom  of  Vaga- 
bondia,  this  swift  and  merciless  honesty,  is  what  makes 
Vagabondia  unique  and  its  people  lovable.  Pleasantries 
and  half-truths  falter  to  abashed  silence  before  the  aston- 
ished stare  of  these  children  in  enthusiasm  and  patriarchs 
in  wordly  wisdom.  Generous,  good-natured,  broad- 
minded  and  indomitably  brave,  they  have  neither  time  nor 
patience  for  the  evasive  and  conciliatory  methods  of  the 
cautious.  These  gentry,  of  another  world  than  theirs, 
are  not  to  their  taste.  On  the  stage,  with  pencil  or  pen 
or  chisel,  Vagabondia  "pretends"  with  inborn  art.  But 
outside  of  its  art,  there  is  not  a  people  so  utterly  indiffer- 
ent to  the  criticism  of  the  discreet,  and  therefore  so 
frankly  themselves. 

When  Huntoon  and  his  play  had  been  disciplined  to 
their  satisfaction  and  his  own  serene  content,  the  little 
gathering  trooped  away,  still  occupied  with  last  sug- 
gestion and  lingering  argument. 

When  June  turned  from  the  door,  Mendoza  came  for- 
ward. In  the  dimly  lighted  room,  with  its  one  shaded 
lamp,  he  looked  unusually  big  and  determined.  June 
leaned  back  against  the  door  and  looked  up  at  him,  a  sug- 
gestion of  dread,  of  shrinking,  in  her  attitude. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  alone — I  wanted  you "  He 

spoke  a  little  thickly  then  stopped  and  drew  her  two  hands 
up  to  his  breast.  "I — >I  am  going  away,  very  soon.  It  is 
an  irrigation  project,  up  the  Nile.  It  will  be  out  of  the 
world — its  desert  places  that  we  are  going  to  give  back 
to  the  world  as  a  garden.  It  will  be  what  we  did  West, 
but  a  far  greater  thing.  It  will  be  a  wonderful  thing " 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  183 

Bending  his  head  lower,  he  looked  into  her  eyes  com- 
pellingly,  masterfully. 

"You  are  going  with  me,"  he  said  steadily.  "I  want 
you,  as  I  never  believed  it  possible  to  want  any  woman 
in  my  life.  You  are  going  with  me — white  woman! 
White  woman !" 

In  his  powerful  hands  her  own  twisted  helplessly. 

"No——"  she  breathed.    "No " 

"You  are  going  with  me "  The  twisting  hands  he 

drew  up  to  his  lips  and  kissed  them,  finger  by  finger. 
"You  are  going  with  me." 

"I  cannot — my  dear,  my  dear !  I  cannot.  I  have  tried 
— but  I  do  not  care — in  that  way — not  enough " 

Her  head  fell  forward  on  the  hands  that  held  hers,  and 
he  bent  and  whispered  against  her  hair. 

"I  love  you  so  that  the  world  reels  at  the  very  thought 
of  losing  you.  I  love  you,  and  I  have  tasted  hells 
and  Heavens  of  infinite  variety  since  you  gave  life  mean- 
ing for  me.  I  have  tried  to  think  of  a  world  without 
you — but  I  cannot.  I  see  red >!" 

Releasing  her  hands,  he  closed  his  arms  around  her 
body  and  crushed  its  soft  length  to  him.  "I  love  you — I 
love  you,  sweet! " 

She  felt  his  heart  pounding  against  her  own,  that  beat 
answeringly,  and  she  tried  to  thrust  herself  back — away 
from  the  great  strength  that  was  sending  its  wonderful 
vitality  into  her  own  body. 

But  the  arms  were  arms  of  oak  and  her  weakness 
thrilled  to  their  pressure  even  while  she  thrust  up  a 
protesting  arm  across  his  breast  and  throat.  "Gray! — 
you  do  not  understand!  I  do  not  love  you — I  would 
never  love  you — you  must  let  me  go >!" 

The  words  came  chokingly,  desperately,  as  he  laughed. 


184  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

Then  he  raised  her  chin  with  one  hand,  holding  her  eyes 
with  the  passion  that  leaped  and  blazed  in  his  own. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said  harshly.  "You  care  for  me — 
I  know  that.  I  don't  care  how  nor  why,  and  I  am  not 
quibbling  with  Destiny.  I  want  you  on  any  terms.  I 
want  you — Good  God !  Don't  you  know  that  men  have 
killed  such  women  as  you,  loving  them  as  I  love  you!" 
His  voice  softened,  and  holding  her  head  against  his 
breast,  he  kissed  her  eyes,  her  face,  her  throat.  "I  will 
give  you  my  strength,"  he  whispered.  "I  will  take  you 
out  of  this  treadmill — this  damnable  grind — to  the  Nile 
where  the  days  go  by  in  golden  dreams  and  the  nights 
are  long  poems — where  you  will  hear  the  strange  call 
of  the  boatmen,  and  the  low,  long  echo  call  that  an- 
swers through  the  moonlight  where  the  waters  slip  past 
the  palms,  as  they  did  a  thousand  years  ago.  We  will  go 
back  to  that  old,  old  world,  you  and  I,  and  gather  some 
of  the  richness  of  its  beauty.  'Dost  like  the  picture?'  " 
He  quoted  in  low,  tender  triumph  as  he  felt  her  strained 
body  relax  and  yield  and  rest  against  his  own,  as  did 
that  Lady  of  Lyons  who  listened  to  the  word-painting  of 
that  other  scene.  And  his  lips  whispered,  close  to  her 
own,  the  rest  of  the  picture — "  'And  when  night  came, 
amid  the  breathless  Heavens,  we  would  try  to  guess  what 
star  would  be  our  home  when  love  becomes  immortal 
!'" — Why  not?  Why  fight,  while  youth  and  fair- 
ness and  hope  died  their  long,  weary  death  ? — Every  fibre 
of  her  body  cried  for  rest,  for  surcease  from  pain.  The 
man  who  held  her  and  warmed  her  chilled  and  fainting 
veins  with  the  splendid  vitality  and  fire  of  his  own, 
loved  her.  It  was  not  the  light,  impulsive  faun-love  of 
the  Island  and  its  spring-time.  It  was  the  deep  love  of  a 
man  who  called  to  her  brain  as  well  as  to  her  senses. 
And  her  brain  and  her  senses  responded  as  they  never 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  185 

had  before.  His  work,  the  redeeming  of  great,  desolate 
places  and  making  them  beautiful,  in  which  he  had  a 
wizard's  cunning,  a  master's  success,  opened  wide  vistas. 
The  little,  narrow  struggle  with  the  hundred  petty  tyran- 
nies of  the  day;  her  dainty,  sharp,  creative  gift  that  had 
degenerated  into  the  drudgery  of  "pot-boilers"  whipped 
from  a  dulled  brain  and  fagged  body — what  promise  did 
they  hold  ? 

She  had  stumbled  on  beneath  a  yoke  too  heavy  for 
so  long,  and  the  yoke  was  slowly  forcing  her  down.  And 
when  it  did — what  then  ? 

Through  the  thick  fog  of  weariness,  of  what  use  the 
far,  cold  gleam  of  the  lode-star?  Had  life  place,  after 
all,  for  the  perfection  she  had  dared  dream  of?  Was 
it  not  the  impractical  visioning  of  the  lotus-eater,  the 
imaginings  of  an  exalte  that  had  no  part  in  a  world 
where  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt  ruled  existence! 

"  'The  beams  of  our  house  shall  be  cedar,  and  our 
rafters  of  fir!'  "  he  was  whispering,  his  fragrant,  healthy 
breath  warm  across  her  lips. — "  'His  left  hand  is  under 
thy  head,  and  his  right  hand  doth  embrace  thee — Let  him 
kiss  thee  with  the  kisses  of  his  mouth:  for  love  is  bet- 
ter than  wine '  My  sweet ! — my  flame-woman ! — < — " 

The  whisper  melted  into  the  night's  soft  silence  on  her 
lips,  and  with  closed  eyes  she  drifted  on  waves  that 
were  of  fire  and  wine-sweetness,  as  he  lifted  her  closer 
still  to  him  and  under  his  mouth  her  own  burned.  To 
drift — so!  To  live  in  every  stinging  vein.  To  be  loved 
as  this  man  loved,  with  the  completeness  and  passion  of 
manhood's  zenith  in  years  and  physical  perfection — was 
not  this  enough  ?  To  be  loved  and  to  love 

Like  a  needle  of  ice  her  pitiless  self-analysis  pierced 
down  through  the  waves  of  rose-fire  in  which  her  brain 
was  swimming,  and  she  tore  her  lips  from  Mendoza's 


186  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

and  with  head  thrown  back,  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes 

haggard  and  horrified.    To  love >?    She  did  not  love 

him.     What,  then,  was  she? 

"It  was — because  I  was — tired,"  she  stammered,  des- 
perately. "Don't  you  see? — Don't  you  understand? — 
There  is  something  wrong.  If  I  gave  myself  to  you,  I 
would  hate  myself — and  you!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

MR.  FERRISS  became  seriously  ill  and  June's  work 
now  followed  the  round  of  the  clock.  A  kindly 
woman  from  the  mill  district  came  in  for  odd  hours,  but 
the  nursing  itself  June  managed  somehow,  striving  to 
keep  her  sketch  work  at  least  saleable,  for  to  this  level 
it  had  now  fallen. 

With  wonderful  control  of  action  and  voice,  she  man- 
aged to  deceive  even  those  who  watched  her  anxiously 
and  closely.  The  strain  of  harder  work  and  broken 
rest  she  fought  against  with  set  teeth  as  her  father's  life 
wavered  down  like  a  dying  candle-flame,  but  she  was 
finding  that  the  floor  was  beginning  to  billow  uncertainly 
under  her  feet  and  her  brain  was  playing  her  tricks  that 
taxed  her  will  to  the  utmost. 

The  first  cool  breath  of  fall  was  in  the  air  and  the  eve- 
ning brought  need  of  the  fire  to  take  the  chill  from  the 
cabin  through  the  long  nights  when  she  was  up  and  down, 
in  thin  night  clothing,  waiting  on  the  restless  invalid. 
He  was  too  ill  to  understand  reasoning  and  any  one  but 
his  daughter  near  him  caused  distress  and  an  acceleration 
of  the  fever.  So  she  fought  through  nights  alone  and 
others  helped  in  every  way  they  could  to  ease  the  running 
of  the  wheels  daytimes.  One  night  Dr.  Stanley  lingered 
late,  very  uneasy,  though  June  tried  to  reassure  her. 

"Oh,  I  know — you  are  fine  and  could  take  in  washing 
by  the  day  and  make  a  fortune,"  she  said  impatiently, 
"but  all  the  same  things  are  going  to  be  different  and 
you  will  find  that  obstinate  people  cannot  run  the  universe 
all  the  time,  though  they  want  to.  The  boys  have  ar- 

187 


1 88  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

ranged  a  loan  for  you  at  the  bank — regular  bank  interest," 
she  explained  crossly.  "So  you  needn't  be  snippy.  The 
bank  will  give  you  all  the  time  you  want,  so  you  will 
just  drop  those  would-be  art  things  you  are  inflicting  on 
the  public,  drawn  with  one  eye  shut  and  the  other  blink- 
ing, and  nurse  the  dad.  We  will  see  to  the  cooking  and 
the  rest  of  it.  You  are  going  along  on  sheer  nerve 
and  according1  to  symptomatic  deduction  and  conclusion, 
you  ought  to  be  dead,  very  dead.  But  you  aren't  yet,  so 
we  will  try  to  head  you  off  and  we  are  going  to  run  things 
ourselves.  This  is  your  last  night  as  boss." 

After  she  had  gone,  June  turned  from  the  door  where 
she  had  managed  to  call  after  her  a  laughing  good-night 
and  staggered  to  her  desk.  With  no  witness  before  whom 
she  must  act,  her  will  buckled  like  a  defective  iron  girder, 
and  she  drew  open  a  drawer  of  the  desk,  took  out  a  bottle 
and  poured  some  greenish  liquid  into  a  glass.  The  bottle 
was  marked  "Strychnia"  and  her  hands  were  shaking  as 
with  the  palsy  as  she  lifted  the  glass  and  drained  it. 

Very  draggingly  the  heart  answered  to  the  whip,  and 
she  looked  at  the  bottle  with  eyes  strained  and  desperate. 
It  was  failing  her,  and  her  father's  life — the  life  that  gave 
her  own  life  its  one  meaning — was  hanging  by  the  frail- 
est thread  that  only  her  own  hand  must  touch ;  her  hand 
made  psychic  by  love  and  steady  by  resolve. 

His  weak  voice  spoke  her  name  in  the  next  room — but 
breathed  her  name.  But  her  ebbing  strength  answered  to 
the  faint  word  as  it  would  not  answer  to  the  drug,  and  she 
sped  noiselessly  into  the  quiet  little  room  where  the 
cameo-beautiful  face  watched  for  her  from  its  pillow. 

Very  steadily  and  carefully  she  ministered  to  him 
while  the  night  crept  on  with  hushed  tread.  Out  in  the 
darkness  the  trees  rustled  softly  and  her  dazed  brain 
slipped  back  to  fair  and  tranquil  years.  It  was  the  low 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  189 

wash  of  the  surf  that  she  heard — she  was  back  in  the 
Island  bungalow  and  the  little  cabin  under  the  trees  was 
as  though  it  had  never  been.  It  was  the  Island,  and  the 
heavens  were  pouring  their  silver  with  divine  prodigality 
down  on  the  wide  waters  and  sleeping  shore.  The  surf 
was  curling  in  snowy,  jewelled  plumes  along  the  sands, 
and  the  rain  of  pearls  and  crystals  showered  elf -music 
far  and  near. 

Far  out  where  the  purple  shadows  stooped  to  the 
purple  lake,  her  gods  called — her  gods  of  the  winds  and 
the  waters,  her  gods  of  the  wild,  free  things.  She  had  lost 
them,  somehow — she  must  have  wandered  far  and  missed 
her  way.  But  the  voices  called  her — called  her  cheerfully, 
jubilantly,  and  her  heart  leaped  to  the  old  witchery  that 
claimed  the  pagan  soul  of  her — the  unbounded  spaces,  the 
unharnessed  winds,  the  majestic  thunder  of  royal  waters, 
the  cold,  clean  sweetness  of  spray  and  rain  on  her  face, 
the  imperial  sword-thrust  of  lightning  across  mountainous 
clouds,  the  organ  reverberations  that  shook  across  the 
firmament  with  the  thunderous  wrath  of  warring  gods — 
to  all  this  her  soul  answered  with  eager  and  awed  wor- 
ship. Her  gods  spoke  and  her  soul  stretched  out  wings 
to  divine,  hidden  souls  that  claimed  her. 

Here  gods  were.  But  in  the  world  whose  nightmare 
yoke  her  spirit  had  cast  off  in  the  final  exhaustion  that 
frees  or  kills,  she  could  find  neither  gods  nor  God.  There 
was  only  the  nightmare,  that  broke  hearts  and  bodies 
on  altars  that  each  generation  erected  and  overturned. 

Her  father  was  sleeping,  and  she  groped  her  way 
out  toward  the  voices — the  low  flickering  light  of  burn- 
ing wood  guided  her — it  must  be  a  driftwood  fire  on 
the  beach,  and  she  made  her  way  toward  it  with  out- 
stretched, groping  arms  and  failing  limbs.  Its  warmth 


190  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

reached  her  at  last,  and  she  sank  down  thankfully,  her 
heavy  head  on  the  curve  of  her  arm. 

On  the  soft  earth  road  before  the  cabin  a  horseman 
pulled  rein  and  dismounted.  Throwing  the  bridle  over 
the  post  of  the  little  picket  fence,  he  went  up  to  the  door 
and  tapped  softly. 

It  was  Gray  Mendoza.  Before  him  stretched  the  long, 
winding  road  that  led  to  the  glow  on  the  night  sky 
that  meant  the  City.  There  a  ship  waited,  and  the  first 
part  of  his  journey  across  the  world  he  was  making  on 
the  back  of  his  hunter.  The  blood  that  pounded  through 
his  head  and  heart  would  have  suffocated  in  a  train. 
To-morrow,  on  the  ocean,  perhaps  he  could  throttle  the 
madness  that  had  held  him  sleepless  for  nights,  and 
readjust  the  ruin  that  seemed  crashing,  day  and  night, 
down  on  all  his  sick  senses. 

In  the  pale  light  of  the  stars  his  face  shone  ghastly 
white  and  haggard.  Deep  furrows  between  the  eye- 
brows and  the  straight,  hard  line  of  the  mouth  told  of 
battling1  mind  and  body.  And  furrows  and  line  told 
of  the  veneer  of  modernity  cracking  under  the  primal 
heat  of  Spanish  blood,  the  primal  fire  of  Man,  to-day 
the  cave-man  of  yesterday. 

A  great  work  waited  overseas,  but  in  the  little  cabin  was 
the  woman  whose  white  hand  had  touched  his  breast  and 
left  there  a  molten  lava  in  which  was  withering  every 
desire  but  the  want  of  her.  And  so  before  he  went  over- 
seas, he  knew  that  he  must  hold  the  woman  again  against 
his  breast,  for  the  memory  of  it 

Again  he  tapped,  and  the  door  yielded  to  his  touch. 
In  the  farther  room  the  night  light  burned  dimly,  and 
in  the  still  fainter  light  of  the  living-room  fire  he  saw 
the  thin  white  folds  of  a  woman's  gown.  It  was  the 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  191 

woman  he  sought,  prone  on  the  fur  rug,  her  face  half 
hidden  on  her  arm. 

He  lifted  her  to  the  couch  in  his  muscular  arms  with 
swift  ease  and  knelt  beside  her.  The  breast  rose  and  fell 
regularly,  her  lips  were  a  thread  of  scarlet  in  her  white 
face,  but  the  sleep  was  the  dead  sleep  of  stupor — of 
Nature's  wrathful  precaution  where  the  mind  totters  on 
its  throne. 

"June !"  he  called  hoarsely.    "June!    June!" 

And  obedient  to  the  harsh  command,  her  eyelids  trem- 
bled, lifted,  and  the  eyes  looked  through  heavy  mists  of 
dead  weariness  up  into  his.  Then  he  laughed. 

"You're  whipped,  miladi!  You're  at  the  end  of  your 
fight.  I  will  have  the  say  of  things  now.  It  is  almost 
daylight  and  before  sunset  you  will  be  Mrs.  Graydon 
Mendoza." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

BEFORE  sunset  she  was  Mrs.  Mendoza.  Dreamily 
obedient,  she  had  murmured  the  little  perfunctory 
phrase  that  made  her  a  wife.  Dreamily  passive  she  rested 
and  listened  while  Graydon  Mendoza  sent  telegrams  and 
hastily,  but  methodically,  arranged  for  a  month's  post- 
ponement of  his  departure.  And  she  only  roused  to 
protest  when  he  planned  her  removal  from  the  cabin. 

Then  the  passive  drifting  that  yielded  without  question 
to  all  that  was  said  and  done  about  her,  was  disturbed 
by  a  vague  trouble,  a  groping  distress. 

To  all  other  arrangements  for  the  care  and  comfort 
of  the  sick  man  and  herself,  she  consented  with  the  utter 
indifference  of  exhaustion.  But  any  reference  to  deser- 
tion of  the  cabin  brought  the  white,  languid  figure  up 
from  its  cushions  to  strained  and  startled  defence. 

So  that  plan  was,  for  the  time,  abandoned.  The  wings 
of  death  hung,  low  and  dark,  over  the  little  house,  and 
the  days  passed  with  the  sense  of  unreality  that  hovering 
death  gives  the  homely  and  practical  offices  of  every-day 
life. 

But  after  two  weeks  the  shadow  lifted.  The  quiet 
marriage  had  caused  but  little  comment.  To  the  "fa- 
miliars" it  came  as  a  solution  and  a  relief,  and  now  the 
slowly  returning  strength  of  the  invalid,  the  great  peace 
that  follows  departing  fear,  augured  well  for  the  conven- 
tional safely  "happy  ever  after." 

From  the  heavy  apathy  that  had  held  her,  June  had 
slowly  wakened  only  to  turn  with  feverish  absorption 
to  the  cartoon  war  she  waged  for  the  children.  Her 

192 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  193 

husband,  busy  rearranging  his  disordered  business  and 
again  getting  ready  for  a  long  exile  in  Egypt,  was  in  the 
City  daily,  and  Dr.  Kate,  frankly  possessed  of  "the 
fidgets,"  sought  the  cabin  at  odd  intervals.  She  invariably 
began  to  talk  animatedly,  subsided  soon  into  silence, 
shrugged  a  rude  shoulder  at  the  absorbedly  industrious 
figure  at  the  drawing  board  and  took  herself  off  in  a 
bad  temper. 

This  mental  attitude  began  to  assert  itself  during  the 
latter  half  of  the  month  Graydon  Mendoza  had  allowed 
himself  for  a  honeymoon.  The  last  week  of  his  stay 
arrived.  He  was  to  sail  Wednesday,  and  Tuesday  morn- 
ing Dr.  Stanley,  a  tightly  rolled  newspaper  gripped  in 
her  hand,  unceremoniously  shoved  open  the  door  of  the 
cabin  and  entered. 

June  was  alone,  sitting  at  her  board  but  not  working. 
The  morning  paper  lay  on  the  board  and  across  it  her  eyes 
met  those  of  the  physician. 

"Oh,  you've  seen  it  ?" 

The  words  were  quite  matter-of-fact  and  the  speaker 
leaned  with  marked  ease  of  manner  against  the  shelf 
over  the  fireplace. 

June  nodded  but  did  not  speak  and  the  doctor,  draw- 
ing her  cambric  handkerchief  across  her  face  with  a 
handsome  but  slightly  nervous  hand,  beamed  down  on 
her  pleasantly. 

"Awful  nuisance — of  course  you  and  Gray  will  have 
to  jabber  through  the  'I  wilts'  again  to  re-tie  the  knot. 
But  it's  lucky  the  vilyun  was  exposed  before  Gray  had 
gone!  Over  two  hundred  marriages  rendered  'null  and 
void,'  the  paper  says.  And  he's  skipped  out,  the  shpahl- 
peen !  Who  would  have  thought  it,  to  look  at  him !" 

June  was  patting  the  paper  softly  with  her  finger-tips 


194  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

and  the  doctor  cleared  her  throat  and  continued  a  little 
hurriedly : 

"Gray  has  read  it  on  the  train  by  this  time  and  I 
suppose  is  thanking  his  stars  he  hadn't  yet  sailed.  You 
wouldn't  go  over  seas  to  him  while  the  dad  is  so  weak,  and 
altogether,  it  would  have  made  an  awful  mix-up.  How- 
ever, you  can  invite  us  to  hear  the  'wilts'  now.  I  suppose 
he  will  be  out  on  the  2:10  as  he  planned,  with  a  J.  P. 
under  one  arm  and  a  parson  under  the  other,  to  make  sure 
this  time!" 

The  finger  tips  still  softly  patted  the  paper  and  the 
doctor's  diaphragm,  within  its  comfortably  loose  corset, 
rose  and  fell  with  a  long,  careful  breath.  June's  gaze 
rested  meditatively  on  the  resolutely  pleasant  smile  on 
Dr.  Kate's  lips — a  smile  that  struggled  heroically  with 
a  look  of  sick  comprehension  that  flickered  behind  the 
sparkling  lenses  of  the  pince-nez. 

Then  she  spoke, 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  re-marry  him,"  she  said  gently. 

Dr.  Kate  swallowed  visibly,  but  without  replying  she 
walked  to  one  of  the  windows  and  looked  out.  After  a 
little,  she  turned  and  faced  June. 

"I  rather  hoped  you  wouldn't  say  that,  but  I  can't  say 
I  did  not  expect  it,"  she  said  evenly.  "I  concede  all 
that  you — have  not  spoken  of.  He  took  you  when  you 
were  physically  and  mentally  whipped  and  he  married 
you.  He  is  of  the  blood  that  doesn't  count  costs  nor 
care  about  method.  He  wanted  you  at  any  price.  No 
one  could  have  checked  his  blind  resolve  that  day,  any 
more  than  they  could  have  roused  you  from  your  apa- 
thetic acquiescence.  And  no  one  was  given  the  chance  to 
try.  He  married  you,  and  you  did  not  protest  because 
there  was  no  fight  left  in  you,  and  he  knew  it.  But 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  195 

you  were  married,  you  are  his  wife,  so  why  not  let  it 
go  at  that?  Why  begin  now  to  tilt  at  wind-mills?" 

"Wind-mills?  Is  the  honest  adjustment  of  the  rest  of 
my  life  only  that?"  asked  June. 

"Oh,  I  know!  I  have  seen  you  waking  up  and  I  was 
pretty  sure  that  things  were  going  to  break.  But  see 
here,  June!  Just  be  practical  and  worldly  for  once. 
Never  mind  the  essence  of  things.  Take  the  adulterated 
and  coloured  and  flavoured  syrups  that  we  wallow  in  like 
flies  and  swim  with  the  crowd.  What's  the  odds !  You 
won't  find  your  little  tin  god,  and  Gray's  several  pegs 
above  the  rest.  He  used  cave-man  means  to  get  you 
but  most  women  like  that  sort  of  thing — it  pleases  their 
vanity  to  be  bullied  and  bossed.  Lay  down  your  arms  and 
let  the  old  world  wag!  It  is  too  big  for  you  to  oppose 
it.  It  will  only  break  you !" 

The  speaker  orated  with  impressive  and  convincing 
warmth,  but  the  shrewd  eyes,  through  their  glittering 
glasses,  noted  very  uncomfortably  the  calmness  that  did 
not  rise  to  argument.  It  was  a  bad  sign.  "And,  anyhow, 
common-law  marriage  will  hold  you,"  she  hurled  finally 
and  with  the  desperation  of  a  last  play  against  the 
calmness. 

"Common  law  will  not  hold  unless  appealed  to,  and 
Gray  is  a  gentleman,"  was  the  quiet  and  discouraging 
reply. 

The  doctor,  after  a  long  silence,  asked  with  resigned 
grimness:  "Have  you  taken  into  consideration  what 
'they  will  say'  ?" 

A  little  smile  softened  the  thoughtful  gravity  of 
June's  lips. 

"I  have  thought  of  even  that!"  she  replied  soberly. 

"Oh,  that's  all  very  well!"  Worry  and  exasperation 
were  undermining  the  physician's  surface-quiet  rapidly. 


196  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"You  can  take  the  bit  in  your  teeth  if  you  like,  but  'they' 
means  the  pack,  and  the  pack  will  go  after  you  tooth 
and  claws.  It  will  say  that  Gray  was  tired  of  you — 
or  that  he  had  good  reason  for  dropping  you.  It  will 
say  that  you  didn't  dare  hold  him.  It  always  damns 
the  woman.  And  it  will  pull  you  down  and  leave  you 
stripped  of  the  last  rag  of  decency.  It  would  never  un- 
derstand your  point  of  view  in  a  thousand  years  and  it 
wouldn't  believe  you  on  a  stack  of  Bibles.  You  will  be 
'hoist  with  your  own  petard'— gibbeted  on  your  own  al- 
tar. Everything  you  have  ever  said  and  done  will  be 
twisted  and  distorted  and  used  as  evidence  to  show  that 
you  are  bad.  That  is  the  world,  my  fair  friend!" 

"And  that" — the  voice  that  answered  was  low,  even, 
amused — '"that  is  what  you  would  have  me  truckle  to!" 

The  doctor  stared  dumbly  and  June  said  quietly, 
"Your  world  has  my  permission  to  exercise  its  talents  and 
its  unclean  imagination  in  whatever  manner  it  pleases. 
The  picture  you  have  so  vividly  painted  is  the  best  argu- 
ment I  could  use.  That  type  of  people  may  go  its  own 
way,  as  best  suits  it.  But  I  must  insist  that  I  be  per- 
mitted the  privilege  of  going  mine.  I  am  neither  married 
nor  mated  to  Graydon  Mendoza.  The  ceremony  that 
would  have  held  our  bodies  together,  while  our  souls 
wrestled,  was  illegal.  The  chains  have  fallen.  And  I  am 
not  going  to  put  them  back  because  I  am  afraid." 

The  doctor  lifted  hands  and  eyebrows,  and  sighed. 
"On  your  head  be  it!" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

WITH  Mendoza,  as  with  the  little  circle  of  intimates, 
the  struggle  was  sharp  but  final.  Ferncliff  related 
and  re-related  the  story  of  the  marriage  that  was  no 
marriage  after  all  and  of  the  departure  of  Mendoza  to 
the  trackless  deserts  of  Egypt. 

After  much  lively  speculation  it  was  decided  that  the 
daughter  of  James  Ferriss  had  been  practically  deserted. 
No  other  explanation  could  be  accepted.  The  rumour 
that  she  had  declined  a  second  ceremony  was  brushed 
aside  as  preposterous,  and  Ferncliff  went  out  of  its  way  to 
pass  the  little  cabin,  hoping  to  get  a  glimpse  of  its  anguish 
and  humiliation. 

June,  however,  disappointed.  She  looked  remarkably 
well  and  cheerful.  She  also  displayed  a  tranquil  in- 
difference to  Ferncliff  and  FernclifFs  deductions  and 
conclusions,  and  Ferncliff  then  decided  that  she  was  not 
wronged,  but  brazen.  She  had  been  "queer"  anyhow, 
said  Ferncliff,  and  this  affair  was  only  what  might  be 
expected. 

Meantime,  Drs.  Kate  and  Carl  began  to  lose  profes- 
sional interest  in  her,  and  devote  themselves  to  the  task 
of  building  Mr.  Ferriss'  strength  up  for  the  expected 
coming  of  the  surgeon,  Dr.  Orth. 

"You  will  look  as  vulgarly  healthy  as  a  dairy-maid 
if  you  keep  on,"  Dr.  Kate  informed  her  disapprovingly 
one  day.  "Just  because  that  Goethe  man  and  I  are  won- 
ders as  physicians  and  pulled  you  up  on  your  feet  when 
you  were  trying  to  commit  slow  suicide,  is  no  reason 
why  you  should  aspire  to  look  like  one  of  those  Robert 

197 


198  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

Chambers  heroines.  They  all  have  arms  like  lady  coal- 
heavers  and  I  don't  like  it.  So  stop  where  you  are." 

June  grimaced  impertinently  and  gave  the  hairbrush 
she  held  a  professional  flourish.  She  was  brushing  her 
father's  wavy,  thick,  grey  hair  while  he  sat  contentedly 
listening  to  their  banter.  Through  the  window  he  could 
see  the  little  band  of  June's  "youngsters"  trudging  glee- 
fully through  the  snow  on  the  way  to  their  homes  around 
the  bend. 

When  winter  drove  them  from  the  grass  and  trees 
that  had  been  their  "school"  during  the  summer,  June 
gathered  them  each  day  into  the  cabin,  where  they  en- 
joyed themselves  while  she  sketched.  She  told  them  fairy 
and  history  stories  and  guided  the  little  eager  hands 
and  minds  along  the  first  uneven  paths  of  craftsmanship. 
It  was  all  play  and  its  variety  was  carefully  guarded 
from  any  intrusion  of  effort  or  weariness. 

Dr.  Stanley  looked  after  them  grimly. 

"I  tackled  that  'Varsity  group  just  one  day,  when  your 
fair  daughter  had  temporarily  retired  from  public  life," 
she  told  Mr.  Ferriss.  "I  cut  out  some  of  those  impos- 
sible dolls  and  Jimmy  Smith  looked  at  them,  and  then 
at  me,  with  lofty  pity.  'Our  Mummy  June  doesn't 
double  their  ankles  and  make  them  stand  on  their  bones 
like  that/  he  informed  me  with  forced  politeness.  'She 
pastes  little  cardboard  sticks  on  their  backs  and  makes 
them  stand  on  their  own  feets.'  Me,  the  best  anatomist  in 
my  college,  snubbed  by  that  mill  prodigy  of  six!  I 
did  not  know  as  much  as  their  Mummy  June,  and  was 
very  plainly  shown  that  I  was  a  rank  outsider.  You 
may  run  your  own  missionary  branch,  June  Ferriss.  I 
have  resigned." 

"You  were  fired,  you  mean,"  laughed  June.     "Bully 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  199 

for  Jimmy!  He  knows  genuine  erudition  when  he  sees 
it." 

Mr.  Ferriss  looked  at  the  little  band  trudging  sturdily 
down  where  the  road  curved,  soon  hiding  them  from 
sight. 

"Poor  little  soldiers!"  he  said  dreamily.  "June  is 
teaching  them  to  stand  on  their  own  'feets'  and  a  little 
farther  down  the  road  they  will  need  all  that  she  can 
do  for  them.  It  is  a  long,  long  road  and  it  is  hard  for 
young  travellers." 

The  winter  passed  quickly,  serenely  gorgeous  as  a 
very  great  lady  clad  in  royal  ermine  and  many  jewels, 
in  frost  of  lace  and  shimmering  sheen  of  silvered  broid- 
eries. Dawns  of  amethyst  and  rose  and  amber  flushed 
delicately  across  fields  of  palest  and  coldest  steel  blue.  The 
sovereign  sun  turned  these  to  dazzling  white,  where  icicles 
flashed  and  fir  trees  were  etched  blackly  and  wonder- 
fully. And  the  end  of  the  day  was  a  glory,  the  night 
solemnly  beautiful  as  a  master's  requiem. 

This  splendour  of  the  country  in  winter  June  greeted 
with  keen  appreciation.  The  great  burning  pine  knots 
sent  fragrant  whiffs  through  the  little  cabin,  the  winter 
sunlight  streamed  through  the  small-paned  windows 
where  sturdy  geraniums  flamed,  and  the  crisp  creak  of  the 
snow  under  passing  wheels,  the  jingle  of  sleigh-bells, 
the  shouts  of  joyous  coasters  on  the  hill,  were  a  joy. 

All  too  soon  the  snow  shrank  to  shaded  hollows,  the 
ice-cloak  parted  over  little  hidden  streams  that  gurgled 
laughingly  back  to  the  world,  and  a  venturesome  robin 
stood  on  the  fence-post  and  called  gay  defiance  to  linger- 
ing threat  of  frost-nipped  toes. 

June,  in  her  soft  gown  of  white  wool  and  with  a  white 
scarf  twisted  around  her  head  and  shoulders,  stood  in  the 


2OO  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

doorway  and  called  coaxingly  to  the  robin,  who  cocked 
a  speculative  eye  on  the  dish  of  crumbs  she  brought 
out  for  his  delectation.  The  air  was  cool,  but  still,  and 
the  open  door  made  little  difference  to  the  ruddy  heat 
that  filled  the  cabin  from  the  blazing  pine. 

Mr.  Ferriss,  in  his  comfortable  arm-chair,  watched 
the  flames  whirling  up  the  big  chimney  and  smiled  at 
the  robin's  tentative  and  brazenly  flirty  notes  as  he 
edged  nearer  to  the  bits  of  bread,  and  listened  fluffily 
to  his  hostess'  blandishments. 

Dr.  Stanley,  perched  on  the  couch  with  her  slender, 
clever  hands  locked  around  her  knees,  followed  the  prog- 
ress of  the  flirtation  amusedly.  June's  coaxing  had 
won  this  pioneer  with  the  red  waistcoat  from  the  South- 
land and  as  she  leaned  quietly  against  the  door  frame, 
the  bits  of  bread  trickling  between  her  fingers,  he  fluttered 
his  wings  jauntily,  threw  caution  to  the  four  winds  and 
came  up  to  the  doorstep  with  a  little  run. 

"You  look  like  the  spirit  of  spring,  yourself,  June," 
the  doctor  said,  studying  the  carefully  quiet  figure  curi- 
ously. "You  are  not  in  the  Amazon  class  by  a  good 
many  pounds,  but  you  are  not  spooky  as  you  used  to  be — 
you  look — different,  somehow.  You  are — what  is  it 
that  she  is,  Dad  Ferriss?"  she  cried  impatiently.  "Qu'est 
que  c'estf" 

The  man  before  the  fire  looked  long  at  the  face  smiling 
down  at  the  little  guest.  It  was  pale,  but  illumined 
somehow,  where  the  afternoon  sunlight  streamed  through 
the  bare  branches  of  the.  trees  down  on  her  bent  head 
and  the  long,  straight  folds  of  her  gown  that  swept 
from  the  narrow  girdle  beneath  the  bust  to  her  feet. 

"The  pale  flame  in  the  lamp  of  alabaster,"  he  murmured 
softly. 

"Well,  be  the  oil  holy  or  magic,  we  are  out  of  it,"  as- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  201 

serted  Dr.  Stanley.  "It  is  a  sort  of 'a — transfiguration 
business,  don't  you  know  ?  But  what  is  doing  the  trans- 
ifiguring?  It  isn't  codliver  oil,  because  she  won't  remem- 
ber to  take  it.  And  it  isn't  the  joy  of  our  society,  be- 
cause she  has  that  anyhow  and  had  it  long  ago.  It  isn't 
her  gown,  because  she  always  wears  those  plain  and 
economical  things  and  manages  to  look  Burne  Jonesy  in 
them  and  deceive  the  public.  She  hasn't  got  religion, 
and  she  isn't  in  love,  and  she  hasn't  been  recently  cured 
of  indigestion,  so  it  is  beyond  my  feeble  intellect.  What 
is  it,  June?" 

June  smiled  as  she  looked  after  the  visitor  who  was 
strutting  back  to  the  fence,  having  finished  his  dinner 
with  every  evidence  of  approval. 

"What  is  it?"  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  tender  blue 
of  the  young  spring  sky — the  beautiful  "virgin's  blue" 
beloved  of  artists.  And  she  spoke  slowly,  a  little  wonder- 
ingly,  asking  of  that  pale  and  fathomless  mystery  rather 
than  of  herself  or  of  those  who  listened.  "I  don't  know 
what  it  is — but  the  spring,  and  the  young  newness  of 
things — the  strange  waiting  for  hidden  and  lovely  things 
eager  to  bloom  and  live — the  divineness  that  the  brown 
trees  and  the  wet  earth  and  the  surcharged  air  seem 
to  breathe  into  my  nostrils — oh,  I  can't  explain,  because 
it  doesn't  explain  itself  to  me!  But  all  that  outdoors 
is  trying  to  tell  me  something,  and  it  thrills  me,  even 
while  I  am  too  stupid  to  understand  why!" 

Dr.  Kate  studied  the  landscape  dubiously  and  shrugged 
her  shoulders. 

"Well,  I  dunno,"  she  reflected.  "Of  course,  it's  nice  to 
see  the  spring  getting  things  ready  for  the  morning- 
glories  and  early  vegetables  and  all  that.  But  I  can't  say 
that  I  feel  particularly  thrilly  about  it  It  is  lack  of 
artistic  temperament,  I  know,  but  I  am  chiefly  interested 


2O2  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

in  the  fact  that  I  forgot  my  rubbers  and  my  shoes  are 
damp." 

June  laid  her  head  back  against  the  door  with  a  gay, 
ringing  laugh.  It  bubbled  as  gleefully  as  the  little  im- 
prisoned brooks  that  were  dancing  their  way  out  to  the 
sunlight  and  freedom. 

"What  a  barbarian  you  are,  Kate  Stanley!"  she  cried 
reproachfully.  "How  can  you  look  at  that  picture  of 
sky  and  hills — more  beautiful  than  any  Turner ! — and  put 
up  lamentations  about  rubbers  ?  Go  to,  thou  heathen !" 

"That  all  sounds  well,"  the  doctor  replied  tranquilly. 
"But  if  I  get  the  sniffles,  I  won't  look  like  any  Turner. 
When  I  have  a  cold,  I  am  a  sight  for  gods  and  men 
and  cross  as  a  bear.  Here !  Whoa-up,  steady  there !" 

With  a  lithe  spring,  she  reached  June's  side  as  she 
swayed  like  a  reed  and  caught  her  in  her  arms. 

Supporting  her  to  the  couch,  she  lowered  the  white 
figure  gently  down  on  the  cushions  and  slipping  her 
sensitive  finger-tips  to  the  extended  wrist,  the  doctor 
waited  in  puzzled  silence. 

June's  eyelids  fluttered  uncertainly  and  then  opened. 
Her  father,  tall  and  anxious,  was  bending  over  her  and 
she  smiled  up  at  him. 

"I'm  all  right,  dad  dear!"  she  said  reassuringly.  "I 
didn't  faint,  and  I'm  not  going  to.  It  was  just  a  dizziness. 
Take  me  to  my  room,  Kate — I'll  rest  there  awhile,  and 
it  will  pass  away." 

In  the  bedroom  she  caught  Dr.  Kate's  wrist  and  held 
it  tensely. 

"Kate,  what  is  it?  What  happened  to  me?  I  felt 
so — so  strange!  Not  ill — but  wonderful.  I — it  was 
not  me — but  it  was  part  of  me — oh,  I  can't  explain!  I 
don't  know  how  to  explain.  There  aren't  any  words, 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  203 

somehow.  It  was — it  was  your — 'transfiguration,'  that 
was  it! — that  I  felt.  But  what  is  it?  What  is  it?" 

The  startled,  tremulous  voice  was  shaken  by  some 
terrifying  joy,  and  it  sank  to  an  awed  whisper  as  she 
leaned  weakly  back  on  the  pillows. 

Dr.  Stanley  fumbled  in  the  pocket  of  her  coat  in  silence 
and  drew  out  a  stethoscope.  This  she  fitted  into  her 
ears  after  first  slipping  her  arms  out  of  her  jacket. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  if  I  am  anything  at  diag- 
nosis, I  am  going  to  find  out,"  she  replied  with  resolution. 
"Now,  young  person,  heart  first !" 

In  the  living-room,  Mr.  Ferriss  walked  uneasily  up  and 
down.  From  the  big,  glassed-in  gallery  at  the  back  came 
the  treble  murmurs  of  the  little  "  'Varsity  crowd,"  June's 
charges.  The  great  pine-knot  in  the  fire-place  chuckled 
and  hissed  and  played  fairy  pyrotechnics  that  sent  sway- 
ing plumes  of  tiny  sparks  up  the  chimney. 

Turning  back  to  the  open  door,  Mr.  Ferriss  saw  Dr. 
Goethe  coming  up  the  gravelled  walk.  Behind  him,  three 
of  the  mill  women  were  turning  in  the  gate. 

Dr.  Goethe  looked  grave  and  troubled — the  women 
sullen  and  excited. 

Mr.  Ferriss  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  courteous 
interrogation  as  they  grouped  inside  the  door  in  awk- 
ward silence. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  at  last,  gently. 

At  that  moment  June,  who  had  heard  them  enter,  came 
into  the  room  followed  by  Dr.  Stanley  who  paused  and 
stared  at  her  brother  physician  in  stunned  bewilderment, 
a  bewilderment  so  great  that  it  gave  no  heed  to  the  others 
in  the  room. 

June,  tranquil  and  smiling,  looked  at  the  women  en- 
quiringly. 


204  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"What  is  it,  Mrs.  Simmons — Martha — Lucy — < — ?" 

The  women  fidgeted  in  frowning  uncertainty  a  mo- 
ment, then  one — Mrs.  Simmons — blurted  out  desper- 
ately  

"Nothin* — only — we  want  our  children." 

"This  early  ?  But  they  never  go  as  soon  as  this.  What 
has  happened?"  June  asked  in  surprise. 

"Why — well,  we  don't  want  them  here  no  more,  that's 
all,"  Mrs.  Simmons  said  doggedly,  and  her  companions 
nodded  and  muttered,  "That's  it!" 

"You  don't  want !  Why,  good  gracious,  woman, 

what  is  the  matter  with  you?  And  with  you  other  two?" 
June  moved  forward  till  her  hand  rested  on  her  desk 
and  looked  at  the  women  impatiently.  "Speak  up !  I  am 
teaching  your  children,  and  caring  for  them  and  feeding 
them,  and  they  are  happy.  So  will  you  please  tell  me 
what  bee  you  have  in  your  bonnet?  They  don't  want 
to  go  home !" 

"Well,  they'll  learn  to  want,"  Mrs.  Simmons  flared  in 
sudden,  jealous  resentment.  "We're  respectable  married 
women,  and  we  bin  hearin'  scandal  long  enough  about 
this  house,  an'  we  are  goin'  to  keep  our  children  home 
after  this.  Their  own  homes  is  good  enough,  I  guess,  if 
they  ain't  stylish." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT 

JUNE  stared  at  the  three  women  in  turn,  in  astonished 
silence  for  a  moment,  then  finally  drew  a  long  breath 
of  enforced  patience  and  enquired,  with  quiet  interest — 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  just  what  scandal  you  have 
heard  about  this  house?" 

Her  eyes  reached,  and  held,  the  scowling,  pale-lashed 
eyes  of  the  spokeswoman,  Mrs.  Simmons,  and  into  the 
latter  came  the  slow,  dull  fire  that  smoulders  in  the  petty 
soul  when  it  looks  on  superiority  that  is  gentle  and  gra- 
cious. 

"If  you  want  to  know,  we  kin  tell  you  mighty  quick," 
the  woman  answered.  "I  bin  doin'  your  cleanin'  a  right 
good  while,  an'  I  ain't  a  fool.  I  got  you  sized  up  about 
right  with  yer  picter-makin'  and  yer  show-actor  friends, 
for  all  you  aimed  to  make  us  think  you  was  so  respectable. 
An'  when  that  night  las'  fall  one  of  our  folks  seen  your 
lover  leavin'  here  after  midnight — < — " 

June  held  up  her  hand  as  the  men  stepped  forward, 
and  checked  them. 

"Wait!"  she  said  quietly.  "All  this  is  very  interest- 
ing and  there  is  something  back  of  it  we  must  under- 
stand. Go  on "  she  added  to  the  woman.  "You  saw  a 

lover  of  mine  leave  here  after  midnight ?" 

"Yes — they  seen  him  against  the  light  when  he  opened 
the  door  an'  stepped  out." 

"Yes?  And  what  else  is  it  that  you  say  you  have 
learned?"  June  asked. 

"June!  This  is  absurd.  Let  these  women  take  their 

205 


206  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

children  and  go."  Dr.  Stanley  started  up  impatiently, 
but  again  June  raised  a  detaining  hand. 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  hear  what  they  have  to 
say.  It  is  really  interesting.  Well,  Mrs.  Simmons?" 

The  mill  women,  angry  at  their  own  embarrassment 
before  the  undisturbed  woman  who  questioned  them  with 
unfeigned  interest  in  her  low  voice,  clustered  together 
with  elbows  touching  for  mutual  encouragement.  As 
they  hesitated,  a  small  boy,  Mrs.  Simmons'  youngest 
hopeful,  opened  the  door  from  the  gallery,  saw  his 
mother,  and  hastily  closed  the  door  again. 

This  fanned  the  sullen  flame  to  reckless  fierceness  and 
Mrs.  Simmons  threw  off  the  nervous  hand  of  the  woman 
nearest  her. 

"We  know  what  the  rest  of  the  town  will  soon  know,  I 
guess,"  she  said  with  a  hoarse  laugh.  "Them  white 
theayter  dresses  o'  yourn  ain't  goin'  to  hide  it  much 
longer,  my  fine  lady !" 

"Ah^— !"  As  the  little  breathed  syllable  left  June's 
lips,  she  sank  on  the  chair  at  her  desk  and  leaned  forward 
with  her  face  in  her  hands.  The  eyes  of  the  physicians 
met  in  flashing  question  and  answer.  Mr.  Ferriss  re- 
garded the  various  actors  in  the  quietly  tense  situation 
with  close,  but  unruffled  interest  and  it  was  Dr.  Goethe 
who  turned  to  the  women  with  slow,  Teutonic  anger 
gathering  in  his  eyes. 

"You  have  said  enough — yes?  You  will  now  take  the 
kinder  and  go — go  at  once,"  he  ordered. 

"Oh,  we're  ready  to  go  fast  enough,"  the  mill  woman 
said  impudently.  "But  you'll  notice  she  ain't  denied 
it  I" 

June  lifted  her  head  and  her  hands,  lightly  clasped, 
she  rested  softly  on  the  drawing-board. 

"Wait ."  She  said  the  word  quietly  as  she  had  said 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  207 

it  before,  but  a  new  timbre  in  the  voice  startled  those 
who  heard  her  into  moveless  attention. 

"You  are  telling  the  truth "  Her  eyes  met  the  sul- 
len, baffled  eyes  of  her  accuser  with  an  odd  luminance  in 
their  depths — a  luminance  that  flickered  and  danced  like 
the  sunlight  on  water.  "I  am  going  to  have — a  child." 

Her  face  was  grave.  There  was  no  smile  on  her  lips, 
but  in  the  eyes  that  seemed  fathomless  there  was  un- 
mistakably a  glint  of  triumphant,  joyous  laughter. 

"You  are  telling  the  truth.  Only — you  do  not  seem 
to  understand.  Why,  are  you  so  stupid — all  of  you!" 
she  swept  her  glance  in  gay  derision  over  the  puzzled 
faces  turned  toward  her.  "Can't  you  see?" 

She  rose  from  the  desk  with  a  tremulously  tender  laugh 
and  lifted  her  arms  as  a  bird  lifts  its  wings  just  before 
flight.  Then  she  sped  to  the  door  of  the  sun-room  and 
opened  it  wide. 

"Come,  you  little  youngsters,  you  are  going  home," 
she  cried,  and  turning  back  to  the  mill  women  she  met 
their  eyes  squarely.  They  tried  to  face  the  look,  but  it 
searched  down  into  their  hearts  like  a  lambent  flame.  It 
was  the  mother-look,  royal,  unreachable.  And  the  cowed 
mill-women  shrank  back  before  it  in  stupid  submission. 

"Take  the  children.  You  just — didn't  understand,  you 
see,"  June  Ferriss  said  gently.  "I  am  going  to  have  a 
child.  My  own — my  own  baby !  My — own  baby.  So  go 
away  to  your  homes,  and  go  down  on  your  knees,  and 
pray  that  my  baby  may  be  strong  and  sturdy — as  I  have 
tried  to  make  yours.  Go !" 

"We  understand,  of  course,  that  this  attitude  of  your 
daughter  is  all  the  result  of  her  bringing-up — it  is  the 
fruit  of  your  transcendentalism,"  Dr.  Stanley  remarked 
judicially  to  Mr.  Ferriss  later. 


208  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

That  gentleman  smiled  into  the  fire  and  lifted  one  in- 
terrogative eyebrow. 

"Of  course  it's  your  fault,"  the  doctor  insisted  tartly. 
"If  you  had  brought  her  up  the  way  the  young  women 
are  fitted  for  life  nowdays,  she  would  be  wearing  mus- 
quito-bar  waists,  spending  her  evenings  in  cafes  and  dis- 
cussing eugenics  with  her  men  friends.  Then  she  would 
marry  for  money  or  position  and  be  respectable." 

"The  gods  forbid!"  murmured  the  defendant  com- 
fortably. 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  you  sort  of  people  belong 
to  the  overwhelming  minority,  please  remember.  Your 
kind  of  respectability  isn't  the  fashion,  so  it  is  improper. 
And  morals  are  like  clothes — you  might  as  well  be  dead  as 
be  out  of  the  fashion.  I  don't  think  that  is  'Sartor  Resar- 
tus,'  but  it  sounds  epigrammatic  enough  to  be.  Perhaps 
Carlyle  didn't  think  of  it." 

The  doctor,  first  thumping  a  cushion  to  fit  her  back, 
settled  herself  comfortably  on  the  couch  and  hugged  her 
knees. 

"June's  cue,  when  those  impeccable  harpies  launched 
their  arrows,  was  to  curl  up — grovelling  hysterics — 
crushed  Magdalen — that  sort  of  thing.  She  was  bringing 
a  new  soul  into  the  world  without  benefit  of  clergy,  so  she 
was  outside  the  pale  and  the  new  soul  was  promptly 
damned  before  it  was  born.  It  was  hard  on  the  new 
soul,  but  it  would  protect  the  rest  of  us.  If  we  should 
brush  elbows  with  a  new  soul  who  was  not  properly 
tagged  by  the  evangelical  Customs  House,  something 
awful  might  happen.  So  we  greet  it  with  the  bar  sinister 
and  feel  that  we  are  safe.  We  are  real  nice  hospitable 
people  when  you  come  to  think  of  it." 

The  philosopher,  who  was  listening  in  smiling  silence 
as  he  contentedly  watched  the  flames,  shook  his  head. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  209 

"It  is  all,  as  June  said  to  those  excited  women,  that 
they  'do  not  understand/  my  dear.  The  world  is  big 
and  complex  and  busy,  and  it  has  blocked  out  a  rough 
working  plan.  And  it  works  along  in  a  rough  way.  It 
has  no  time  to  analyse.  Individuals  chafe,  and  gather 
into  sects  and  communities,  each  with  a  new  set  of  de- 
tails for  the  crude  plan  of  the  many.  And  then  the 
sects  war;  and  as  individual  problems  arise,  the  members 
of  a  sect  war  with  each  other.  So  they  in  turn  dissolve 
and  disband  and  disintegrate,  as  all  human  lives  and  laws 
disintegrate.  But  yesterday  we  committed  the  unbaptised 
to  the  eternal  sulphur  pit.  That,  as  Ellen  Key's  biog- 
rapher says,  is  one  of  the  'imperishable  truths'  now  anti- 
quated. We  will  discard  some  more  'imperishable  truths' 
to-morrow.  But  the  many  forget  yesterday  and  to-mor- 
row— they  forget  that  we  are  just  groping,  and  that  no- 
body can  be  sure  if  they  are  all  right  or  all  wrong." 

"No,  the  forgetteries  of  the  hoi  polloi  are  their  strong 
point,"  agreed  the  doctor.  "Their  perfect  satisfaction 
with  themselves  and  their  little  one-day  horizon  is  as 
pronounced  as  the  facility  with  which  they  can  drift 
into  'benefits  forgot.'  June  and  her  work  with  the  mill 
progeny,  par  exemple." 

"June  did  not  work  for  thanks,  and  the  children  them- 
selves do  not  forget!" 

"Well,  she  isn't  much  concerned  just  at  present,  I'll 
admit.  She  declined  to  take  her  cue,  which  I  have  re- 
ferred to,  and  apologise  to  the  proprieties  for  being 
alive.  By  all  the  canons  of  polite  society,  she  should 
have  fled  to  another  state  to  hide  her  shame.  That  is 
what  we  call  it — only  we  don't  call  it.  We  whisper. 
Then  she  should  have  come  back  apologetically,  leaving 
the  shame  in  some  orphan  asylum,  and  we  might  have 
forgiven  her  enough  to  bow,  with  facial  reservations — 


2io  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

sort  of  blending  of  condolence  and  discretion,  as  it  were. 
Did  she  do  this,  James  Ferriss?" 

James  Ferriss  admitted  perforce  in  amused  pantomime 
that  she  didn't. 

"Of  course  she  didn't.  She  is  your  daughter — the 
daughter  of  a  father  who  wouldn't  know  what  expediency 
meant  if  he  read  it  in  the  dictionary.  We  didn't  get  a 
chance  to  take  her  up.  She  doesn't  know  she's  dropped. 
What's  the  use  of  being  a  Christian  and  forgiving  a 
sinner  if  she  doesn't  know  she's  a  sinner  and  doesn't  give 
a  whoop  for  your  forgiveness?  I  have  tried  to  be  nice 
and  magnanimous  to  your  daughter,  and  she  only  looks 
at  me  with  eyes  brimming  over  with  absurdly  lovely 
dreams  and  informs  me,  with  an  air  of  sovereign  con- 
descension, that  'if  I'm  a  nice  lady,  and  behave  myself 
and  get  a  Gorham  mug,  maybe  I  may  be  god-mother !' ' 

Dr.  Stanley  sniffed  with  pardonable  indignation. 

"I  was  reared  by  rich  but  honest  parents,"  she  con- 
tinued aggrievedly.  "And  I  have  a  nice  disposition  when 
people  let  me  have  my  own  way.  But  even  my  long- 
suffering  patience  is  strained  when  that  aggregation  of 
alleged  talent  comes  out  here  Sundays.  They  are  blither- 
ing— simply  blithering.  They  sketch  her  as  Bodenhau- 
sen's  Madonna,  and  write  verses  and  wrangle  over  names, 
and  are  as  absolutely  happy  as  if  each  were  a  grand 
chamberlain  and  they  were  expecting  an  heir  to  all  the 
Russias !" 

There  was  a  swift  frou-frou  of  drapery  as  June  came 
into  the  room  with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand,  perched 
herself  on  the  arm  of  her  father's  chair  and  kissed  him 
on  the  top  of  the  head. 

"I  have  a  letter  from  Nora,"  she  announced  hap- 
pily. "And  she  is  coming  back." 

"Splendid !"  said  her  father  with  much  satisfaction. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  211 

"Bread!"  the  doctor  remarked  with  a  reminiscent 
gleam  in  her  eye.  "Nora  is  a  jewel.  She  makes  bread — 
real  bread.  Not  that  feather-pillow  stuff  that  we  con- 
sume under  that  title.  Three  cheers  for  Nora  and  long 
may  she  wave !  When  does  she  arrive  ?" 

"This  week,  praise  be!  Bless  her  heart,  she  saves 
the  cost  of  her  'board  and  keep'  by  her  economies.  When 
Nora  serves  a  casserole,  we  carefully  refrain  from  going 
into  particulars.  Miss  Casey  is  always  blandly  non-com- 
mittal, and  while  we  surmise  that  the  contents  of  the 
dinky  dish  is  a  collaboration  of  former  days,  we  surmise 
inaudibly." 

The  doctor  nodded  approval. 

"Nora  is  one  of  the  vanishing  race — one  of  the  genius 
cook-ladies  who  can  take  Tuesday's  bone  and  Wednes- 
days leftovers  and  make  a  cleverly  seasoned  piece  de 
resistance  that  will  make  the  most  critical  gourmet  grow 
lachrymose  with  gratitude.  Ordinary  educated  cooks 
want  a  market  at  their  backs.  The  born  artist  takes 
what  is  at  hand  and  does  the  impossible.  That's  Nora." 

"What  Nora?"  enquired  Dicky  through  the  open  win- 
dow. "Don't  all  artists  do  the  impossible?  Don't  we 
live  in  spite  of  doctors,  diet  and  debts?  Who  is  this 
Nora  person  whom  you  eulogise  so  fervently?" 

"And  the  Philistines  came  down  on  the  fold,"  mur- 
mured Dr.  Kate  resignedly  as  the  "talent"  filed  cheer- 
fully in  the  front  door  and  swarmed  around  the  pair  in 
front  of  the  fire-place. 

'  'Lo,  doc,"  Tweed  cried  cheerfully,  shaking  her  hand 
vigorously.  "Here  we  are !" 

"No,  you  don't  say!"  Dr.  Stanley  responded  with 
elaborate  interest.  "Will  the  assembled  company  please 
inform  me  why  people  who  write  clever  things  never 
give  any  evidence  of  it  in  their  conversation?  I  am  not 


212  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

criticising,  you  know — merely  thirsting  for  information." 

"Sweet  thing!"  grinned  Tweed  affectionately.  "Has 
her  a  pain  in  her  wee  tummy  small?" 

The  physician  wrinkled  her  well-chiselled  nose,  of  which 
she  was  justly  proud,  at  the  novelist  and  he  placed  him- 
self beside  her  on  the  couch  and  held  her  hand  "while 
they  made  up,"  as  he  informed  the  others. 

"Sea-food  supper,  June  child!"  the  playwright  was 
meanwhile  declaiming  over  the  Babel  of  voices.  "Shipped 
in  from  the  beach  this  morning  by  an  ardent  admirer. 
Clams  to  steam — beauties !" 

Sundry  hampers  and  baskets  were  "toted"  to  the  kitchen 
in  readiness  for  the  usual  week-end  programme  and  the 
elect  gathered  comfortably  around  Mr.  Ferriss'  big  arm- 
chair. 

June,  who  had  returned  to  the  broad  arm  where  she  sat 
and  leaned  against  her  father's  shoulder,  looked  down 
with  amused,  contented  eyes  at  "the  boys"  lazily  stretched 
out  on  the  rug,  at  Clara  and  Mocky  and  the  doctor, 
clever  women  all.  They  were  such  a  frank,  loyal,  affec- 
tionate lot,  these  folk  who  worked  like  Trojans  in  the 
great  profession  of  amusing  the  world,  and  of  healing 
its  ills. 

Ephemeral,  perhaps,  the  outward  and  visible 'results 
of  their  mission.  But  was  it  the  less  worth  while  ?  The 
doctor's  work  was  admitted.  But  the  others — what  of 
the  hours  of  long  grilling  rehearsals,  of  one-night  stands, 
late  jumps  from  town  to  town,  bad  food,  poor  beds,  cold 
rooms,  of  going  on  and  carrying  a  part  nobly  and  airily 
though  sick  with  pain  and  heartsick  with  worry ! 

This  was  the  soldier-duty  of  player-folk,  the  bravery 
that  refuses  to  lie  down  while  there  is  motive  power 
left  in  the  body  to  stagger  through  the  scenes  of  laughter 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  213 

and  tears,  only  to  crumple  up  afterward  on  the  top  of  a 
stage  trunk. 

Generous,  clever,  good-natured,  uncritical,  they  laughed 
their  way  cheerily  through  ills  and  over  obstacles,  carry- 
ing their  hard  times  with  a  dauntless  and  resolute  phi- 
losophy that  refused  to  see  defeat,  and  that  battled  for 
existence  with  a  serene  and  optimistic  courage  that  no 
other  profession  could  equal. 

Mr.  Ferriss,  from  the  heights  of  his  philosophy,  looked 
out  with  tranquil  detachment  at  the  little  warring  and 
squabbling  that  made  up  the  most  of  life.  And  from 
the  broad  plateau  from  which  he  looked  with  pitiful 
tolerance  down  upon  the  internecine  strife  where  friend 
misjudged  friend,  kin  hurt  kin,  he  saw,  closer  to  him  in 
the  charity  that  seeks  out  the  best  that  is  in  one  and 
ignores  the  rest,  these  people  of  the  stage  and  of  the 
world  that  offers  a  little  nonsense  to  leaven  the  world's 
huge  woe. 

Dicky,  forgetting  his  laboriously  ground-out  jokes 
with  which  he  kept  the  erratic  pot  boiling,  was  doubled 
up  tailor-fashion  on  the  floor  with  his  back  to  the  wall, 
making  a  study  head  of  his  host  and  blissfully  waving 
a  tyrannical  pencil  to  indicate  "chin  up" — "eyes  lower." 
Mocky  and  Clara  were  heatedly  arguing  about  the  de- 
gree of  perfidy  in  those  frivolous  persons  who  caused 
stage  "waits"  and  the  consequent  necessity  of  soul-racking 
improvising  for  the  unfortunates  who  were  holding  the 
scene  from  ruin.  The  rest  were  skimming  over  the  ethics 
and  metaphysics  of  Ibsen  and  Shaw,  of  Emerson  and 
Tolstoi. 

"It  is  all  a  question  of  whether  one  prefers  to  be  hon- 
est, or  discreet,"  Tweed  was  saying  apropos  of  the  grow- 
ing social  unrest.  "Tolstoi  and  Ellen  Key  are  the  fire- 
brands that  are  ahead  of  their  time  and  that  always 


214  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

precede  the  electric  torch  of  a  Bartholdi  Goddess  of 
Liberty  lady.  They  are  struggling  out  of  the  morass  of 
custom  that  holds  us  and  chokes  us.  We  know  that  it  is 
all  wrong  and  very  unhealthy,  but  we  know  that  to 
protest  raises  a  devil  of  a  row,  so  we  stick  to  the  morass 
and  pretend  that  we  like  it.  Key's  soul,  like  George 
Eliot's,  knows  no  boundaries.  Both  women  battled  up 
through  the  calumny  and  vicious  jealousy  of  mean  little 
natures  that  swarmed  like  red  ants  over  them.  Ignorance 
and  cowardice  always  hates  that  which  it  can  neither 
reach  nor  emulate.  They  suffered,  of  course.  The  lion 
suffers  from  the  envenomed  sting  of  insects.  But  they 
never  whimpered,  those  lion-like  women.  They  never 
offered  an  excuse.  They  just  fixed  their  eyes  on  the  big 
and  clean  and  wholesome  and  great,  and  refused  to  com- 
promise. Praise  all  the  gods  for  them!" 

"  'Do  good  for  good  is  good  to  do, 
Scorn  bribe  of  Heaven  and  threat  of  Hell, 
Tear  the  old  woman  from  your  breast 
And  wait — the  tinkling  of  the  camel-bell'  " 

Huntoon  quoted  from  Burton's  "Kasidah"  through  a 
fragrant  cloud  of  smoke.  "We  have  held  the  'old  woman' 
of  fear  to  our  breast  so  long,  it  will  take  a  surgical 
operation  to  get  rid  of  her.  We  first  knew  her  as  re- 
ligious superstition.  Then  she  became  a  habit.  We  have 
all  quietly  dropped  the  brimstone  business,  but  we  sheep- 
ishly wear  the  old  woman  for  the  same  reason  we  wear 
hot  and  smelly  woollen  coats  when  the  thermometer  is 
ninety — because  the  other  fellow  does.  Women  won't 
They  shed  the  coat  and  get  into  thin  toggery,  and  they 
shed  the  husband  who  pans  out  different  to  the  assay 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  215 

and  take  upon  themselves  one  that  they  can  live  with  in 
happiness.  And  both  for  the  same  reason — that  women 
are  a  little  more  fastidious  than  we  are  and  very  much 
more  brave." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  put  it  as  strong  as  that,"  said  June. 
"Women  are  more  frankly  radical  than  men,  but  a  man's 
viewpoint  is  naturally  different.  He  is  the  protector,  he 
must  shield,  and  his  sense  of  honour  keeps  him  a  martyr 
to  a  mistake,  where  a  woman's  sense  of  honour  drives  her 
to  remedy  the  mistake  and  get  her  life  on  a  cleaner  basis 
morally." 

"It  is  Jeanne  d'Arc  and  her  intuition.  It  leads  armies, 
where  the  generals  wait  to  study  the  map,"  Clara  put  in, 
smothering  Mocky's  clinching  argument  with  a  cushion. 
"This  is  the  idea " 

Reaching  over  Mocky,  she  drew  one  of  Key's  books 
from  the  open  shelves  that  surrounded  the  room  and 
read  an  extract  from  a  Key  critic. 

"  'I  do  not  believe  it  is  moral  to  regulate  life  by  con- 
sidering the  desire  to  remain  undisturbed  of  those  that 
are  decayed  and  petrified.'  There  it  is  in  a  nut-shell.  Not 
that  I  wish  to  be  personal  in  my  remarks  and  accuse 
the  perfect  gentlemen  here  present  of  being  decayed 
and  petrified.  But  the  fact  remains  that  it  is  much  harder 
to  pry  them  loose  from  the  established  order  of  things, 
than  it  is  the  gentler  sex." 

"Got  your  eye  on  some  benedict,  Mrs.  Huntoon?"  her 
husband  enquired  suspiciously. 

"I  have  my  eye  on  those  ashes,"  she  replied  severely; 
"June,  he's  dropping  them  back  of  the  couch!" 

"Well,  they  don't  show  there,"  Mr.  Huntoon  explained 
pleasantly. 

"Exactly!"  laughed  Mocky,  who  looked  like  a  little 


2i6  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

girl  down  on  the  big  fur  rug  with  her  shoulders  braced 
against  "Dad  Ferriss'  "  knees.  "A  man's  ideas  of  house- 
keeping are  like  his  morals.  Keep  up  a  brave  front — 
never  mind  the  dust  and  bones  behind  the  scenes!" 

"And  the  fuss  he  makes  over  the  franchise,  which  he 
knows  is  a  losing  fight ! — shows  how  he  hangs  on  to  Cus- 
tom like  my  terrier  to  a  bone,"  added  Dr.  Stanley.  "Look 
at  England! — blessed,  pig-headed,  stubborn  England!" 

Maj'  Henry  Dascom  chuckled  and  gallantly  ranged 
himself  on  the  side  of  the  ladies. 

"As,  for  instance,  when  the  Giants  played  the  White 
Sox  in  London — the  first  game  His  Majesty  King  George 
attended,  you  remember !"  he  said.  "Just  when  the  game 
was  hottest  an  Englishman  remarked  that  'it  was  time 
for  the  interval.'  The  interval  means  the  pause  for 
the  afternoon  cup  of  tea.  Yankee  beside  him  gasped 
and  enquired  'Why?'  and  was  fixed  by  a  pained  stare. 
'Why,  because  it  is  quite  customary,'  the  English  gentle- 
man explained  patiently." 

"Devout  worshippers  of  the  great  god  Precedent,"  said 
Mr.  Ferriss,  patting  Mocky's  curly  head.  "Like  the  de- 
ceased wife's  sister  bill,  that  became  almost  as  sacred  an 
English  institution  as  Westminster  itself.  It  is  now 
moral  to  marry  the  sister-in-law,  but  only  recently  became 
so  in  England.  If  it  has  been  decided  now  that  it  is 
moral,  why  was  it  not  always  moral?  And  if  they  are 
right  now,  and  were  wrong,  how  are  we  to  know  how 
many  other  of  their  standards,  based  on  precedent,  are 
right?" 

Tweed  promptly  fished  around  in  the  shelves  for 
June's  "Kasidah." 

"Let  me  get  Burton  on  that,"  he  exclaimed.  "Sir  Dick 
has  it  down  fine.  Here  you  are 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  217 

"  'There  is  no  Good,  there  is  no  Bad ; 

These  be  the  whims  of  mortal  will : 
What  works  me  weal  that  I  call  'good/ 

What  harms  and  hurts  I  hold  as  'ill' : 

They  change  with  place,  they  shift  with 
Race ;  and  in  the  veriest  span  of  Time, 
Each  Vice  has  worn  a  Virtue's  crown ;  all 
Good  was  banned  as  Sin  or  Crime :' ' 

"What  a  wonder-man  he  was,"  said  June  softly,  look- 
ing into  the  fire  with  dreaming  eyes.  "Lady  Isabel  loved 
him  from  the  first  and  gave  up  society,  wealth,  ease, 
luxury,  to  follow  him  into  the  desert.  He  always  'heard 
the  East  a'  calling'  just  as  the  yoke  of  civilisation  began 
to  settle  down  on  his  neck  and  the  woman  who  was  his 
comrade  became  vagabond — happy  vagabond ! — with  him. 
She  loved  and  served  him,  and  so  his  desert  spaces  were 
her  fields  of  Arcady.  To  love  like  that!  To  love  like 
that!  Just  once  to  love  like  that,  to  the  core  of  one's 
being,  to  the  inner  temple  of  one's  soul !  How  it  would — 
repay !" 

To  love  like  that ! 

The  little  group  of  people  who  lived  life  to  the  fullest, 
who  loved  "Ruffian  Dick"  and  his  gipsy  soul,  looked,  too, 
into  the  fire  where  they  could  see  the  little  tent  of  marble 
that  held  at  last  the  restless  body  of  the  wanderer.  "Pay, 
pack  and  follow"  were  always  the  instructions  to  the 
woman  who  loved  and  understood,  and  who  obeyed 
orders  with  soldier  bigness  worthy  the  soldier  soul  of  her. 
And  on  the  little  white  tent  of  stone  she  had  the  old, 
familiar  "marching  orders"  chiselled — '"Pay,  pack  and 
follow," — the  orders  she  waited  with  soldier  patience 
permission  of  Life  to  obey. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE 

JOHN  ORTH  was  born  on  a  farm  and  made  his  first 
obeisance  to  medicine  by  way  of  the  village  doctor's 
wood-pile.  By  easy  stages  he  progressed  to  the  doctor's 
house,  where  he  proved  handy  in  the  cellar,  kitchen,  attic 
and,  as  a  badge  of  honour,  was  given  the  entree  of  the 
"pillery." 

This  was  a  wonderful  room  where  the  old  doctor  con- 
cocted wonderful  compounds  for  patients  all  over  the 
countryside.  It  had  a  well-stocked  drug-shop  along  one 
wall,  a  surgery  along  another,  and  a  third  was  covered 
with  books. 

The  old  doctor — >Dr.  Amos  Smith — was  not  long  in 
trying  out  this  youth  whom  he  had  brought  into  the 
world,  and  soon  had  him  busy  with  pestle  and  mortar. 
He  made  pills,  filled  capsules,  compounded  prescriptions 
and  sterilised  instruments  with  a  precision  of  touch  in  the 
hands  that  had  wielded  the  axe  with  scientific  accuracy  in 
earlier  days,  and  Dr.  Amos  grunted  approval. 

The  old  brown  leather-backed  books  began  to  come 
out  from  their  long  retirement  and  then  John  began  to 
ask  questions.  The  questions  were  brief  and  Dr.  Smith's 
answers  were  long;  but  they  were  never  too  long  for 
the  grave-faced  boy  who  kept  his  grey  eyes  unblinkingly 
on  the  face  of  his  preceptor. 

The  old  doctor  had  a  daughter,  Hannah,  who  took 
after  the  distaff  side  of  the  family,  which  was  not  noted 
either  for  its  cleverness  or  its  good  looks.  Hannah 
was  plain,  limited  intellectually,  and  knew  it.  She  had 

218 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  219 

passed  the  marrying  age  some  time  before  John  had 
reached  it,  but  she  married  John. 

He  was  never  exactly  sure  himself  how  it  happened — 
a  condition  of  mind  that  a  large  percentage  of  Benedicts 
are  familiar  with,  if  the  truth  were  known.  But  he  ac- 
cepted his  new  estate  without  protest,  if  without  en- 
thusiasm, vaguely  resigned  to  Hannah  because  of  Han- 
nah's father's  pillery. 

He  moved  his  few  effects  to  the  doctor's  home  and 
became  his  assistant.  He  was  taciturn  by  temperament, 
Hannah  because  she  did  not  know  of  anything  to  talk 
about,  so  the  streams  of  their  lives  flowed  along  side  by 
side  without  turbulence,  if  without  commingling.  John 
Orth's  exterior  was  quietly  grey,  with  a  disturbing  sug- 
gestion of  uncharted,  and  unchartable,  depths.  His  wife 
was  neutral  in  every  particular,  a  term  which  catalogued 
her  quite  obviously  and  finally. 

After  awhile  John's  father  died  and  John  sold  the 
farm  and  went  to  a  medical  college  and  qualified  for  a 
diploma.  The  word  "qualified"  is  used  advisedly  in  this 
instance.  A  good  many  graduates  just  "get"  one.  Which 
little  distinction  has  a  very  distressing  effect  on  their  un- 
enlightened patients. 

Doctors  are  born,  not  made.  Medical  colleges  go 
through  the  motion  and  confer  the  title,  which  is  quite 
a  different  thing.  And  in  consequence  a  very  great 
number  of  people  who  are  taken  sick  and  who  get  well 
again,  recover  in  spite  of  the  physician  called  in,  and 
not  because  of  him.  But  they  don't  know  this,  so  the 
profession  flourishes  and  the  colleges  wax  fat. 

It  would  have  been  as  difficult  to  keep  John  Orth 
from  being  a  physician,  as  it  is  for  the  obliging  medical 
faculties  very  frequently  to  kick  enterprising  but  unin- 
spired "talent"  out  of  its  long-suffering  alma  mater  with 


220  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

its  fully  paid-for  diploma.  John's  hard  and  practical 
schooling  with  his  old  friend  sent  him  to  college  with 
a  knowledge  many  of  the  out-going  graduates  had  never 
reached  and  would  never  reach.  The  hand  that  had 
wielded  the  axe  on  Dr.  Smith's  wood-pile  was  slender, 
with  small,  supple  muscles  playing  like  a  mesh  of  steel 
wires  under  its  very  fine  skin.  Swung  by  its  grasp,  the 
axe-blade  had  always  struck  "true."  And  later,  when  he 
balanced  a  tiny  instrument  on  the  length  of  his  index 
finger  and  guided  its  point  against  a  glove-kid  cushion  to 
test  a  tip  so  fine  it  could  not  be  seen  by  the  naked  eye — 
when  the  instrument,  unheld,  would  penetrate  the  kid  by 
its  own  light  weight  without  moving  from  its  resting  place, 
the  hand  was  as  steady  as  though  chiselled  in  stone. 

When  Dr.  Smith  died,  the  Orths  moved  to  the  City. 
The  silent,  dynamic  force  that  had  carried  John  from  the 
wood-pile  to  the  pillery  now  carried  him  from  the  ob- 
scurity of  a  village  practice  up  where  the  wise  men  of 
his  profession  greeted  his  name  and  himself  with  a  regard 
at  first  curious  and  later  respectful. 

A  number  of  years  of  City  practice  resulted  in  a  small 
private  hospital  located  in  Ferncliff  for  patients  who 
were  cases  of  peculiar  interest.  The  quiet  John  Orth  of 
former  days  could  not  well  grow  quieter,  but  the  grave 
face  had  controlled  all  expression  of  emotion  for  so 
many  years  it  had  assumed  the  cold  immobility  of  a  mask. 
Dr.  Orth  never  glanced  at  anybody  or  anything.  His  eyes 
always  turned  with  deliberation  and  when  they  reached 
the  object,  paused  there,  the  lids  motionless,  the  gaze  in- 
scrutable. The  object,  if  animate,  met  the  inscrutability 
with  varying  emotions.  From  the  man  himself  there 
emanated  a  distinct  sense  of  attraction,  a  paradoxical 
blending  of  utter  indifference  to  people,  combined  with 
what  we  call  magnetism,  not  knowing  what  magnetism  is. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  221 

And  this  sense  of  attraction  that  drew,  with  the  deadly, 
slate-cool  grey  of  eyes  that  repelled,  ended  in  many  cases 
in  vague  irritation  that  finally  nursed  itself  into  distinct 
antipathy.  The  small  soul  instinctively  resented  the 
reserve  that  met  its  volubility  with  silence  and  its  asser- 
tiveness  with  uninterest. 

Those  more  determined  in  their  liking,  on  the  other 
hand,  shouldered  past  the  uninterest,  held  by  the  intangi- 
ble charm  that  so  obviously  made  no  effort  to  charm ! — 
and  giving  their  devotion,  resignedly  aware  of  the  fact 
that  the  object  of  it  did  not  know  that  they  did  and  prob- 
ably would  not  care  if  he  did  know. 

One  child,  a  daughter,  was  born  to  the  Orths.  She — • 
Helen — looked  at  the  father  with  his  own  strange  eyes 
and  the  two  alien  souls  understood  each  other.  Alone 
with  the  child,  the  mask  lifted  a  little,  and  she  knew  the 
man  it  shielded  as  no  other  living  person  did.  This  psy- 
chic recognition  meant  to  John  Orth  a  wonderful  camara- 
derie that,  up  to  then,  his  life  had  missed,  but  the  Law 
of  Compensation  that  treads  Nemesis-fashion  on  the 
heels  of  happiness,  was  attendant  here.  For  Hannah,  the 
neutral,  had  not  been  familiar  with  the  "pillery"  for 
nothing,  and  after  the  child's  birth  her  husband  learned 
that  even  neutral  types  have  their  part  in  history-making. 
And  Hannah,  the  unimaginative,  was  "dreaming  dreams" 
born  of  the  poppy's  poison. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY 

WHEN  the  Orth  residence,  which  was  adjacent  to 
the  hospital,  was  opened  and  word  went  around 
that  the  family  had  returned  from  their  long  stay  abroad, 
Ferncliff  was  conscious  of  a  pleasant  stir  of  interest. 

The  presence  of  the  surgeon  meant  many  pilgrimages 
to  Ferncliff  of  people  more  or  less  interesting,  even  if 
invalids  or  semi-invalids,  and  the  quiet  suburb  was  always 
grateful  for  any  ripple  across  the  rather  monotonous,  if 
placid,  surface  of  its  existence. 

And  the  Reverend  Holman  Drake  took  occasion  to 
drop  in  the  Orth  home  to  tell  its  master  so. 

Holman  Drake,  D.D.,  was  fat,  fair  and  fifty.  His 
rubicund  face  denoted  the  comfortable  intelligence  that 
accepted,  and  did  not  question.  He  was  not  at  all  inter- 
ested in  abstruse  problems.  He  acknowledged  readily 
that  Jonah  and  the  whale  might  have  been  either  fact  or 
fancy,  and  he  really  could  not  see  that  it  mattered  any- 
how. The  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil  were  things  it 
was  quite  proper  to  preach  against  theoretically,  but  he 
took  a  frank  and  epicurean  interest  in  the  flesh-pots  that 
pertained  to  the  first  two,  and  his  twinkling  eyes  bespoke 
a  broad  and  even  sympathetic  charity  toward  the  cloven- 
hoofed  but  clever  personage  credited  with  being  the 
father  of  the  world's  evil. 

Even  the  devil  had  his  good  points,  in  the  estimation 
of  Mr.  Drake.  His  badness  emphasised  the  respectability 
of  goodness  and  meanwhile  made  life  pleasantly  interest- 
ing to  the  conservative  but  appreciative  onlooker.  Mr. 
Drake's  caution — which  he  termed  Christian  incorrupti- 

222 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  223 

bility — would  always  prevent  his  being  devilish,  but  his 
inclination — which  he  termed  Christian  tolerance — • 
leaned  strongly  toward  those  whom  his  cloth  recognised 
as  the  devil's  wayward  disciples. 

This  quality  of  broad-mindedness  Mr.  Drake  found 
to  be  a  not  invaluable,  as  well  as  convenient,  asset.  It 
spared  him  a  too  steady  diet  of  incorruptible  society, 
which,  if  estimable,  must  be  admitted  to  lack  the  unex- 
pectedness that  gives  salt  to  existence  and  which  must 
not  be  underestimated.  And  his  intellectually  polished 
senses  responded  pleasantly  to  the  titillation  of  a  witty  if 
naughty  world,  while  his  bump  of  caution  aforesaid 
rested  comfortably  secure  in  the  knowledge  that  his  en- 
joyment was  vicarious. 

In  other  words,  Mr.  Drake  would  never  permit  heart 
nor  temperament  to  turn  his  immaculately  polished  boots 
down  the  Primrose  Path,  but  as  an  onlooker  on  its  blos- 
somy  bank  he  was  piously  grateful. 

It  must  be  recorded  with  regret  that  this  broad- 
mindedness  in  its  rector  was  chiefly  responsible  for  the 
fact  that  most  of  the  seats  in  artistic  and  fashionable  St. 
Giles  were  occupied'  on  Sundays  when  the  weather  was 
pleasant  and  counter-attractions  were  not  too  extraor- 
dinary. St.  Giles  was  very  high  church,  had  adopted 
the  incense  and  the  ceremonial  ritual  of  Benediction  with 
the  lighting  of  altar  tapers,  and  was  seriously  considering 
the  confessional.  This  odour  of  artistic  sanctity,  the 
stained  light  that  streamed  through  Tiffany  windows,  the 
surpliced  choir  with  mortar-boarded  women,  the  great 
silver  cross  on  the  broad  breast  of  the  rector,  the  sonorous 
intoning  of  the  litany — all  these  were  really  suggestive  of 
"Parsifal"  in  their  mysterious  charm.  And  the  kindly 
eyes  of  Dr.  Drake  were  not  depressing  in  their  effect  when 
they  inadvertently  turned  a  smilingly  reproachful  regard 


224  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

on  a  little  game  of  bridge  that  might  aid  in  passing  a  quiet 
Sunday  afternoon. 

Dr.  Drake  prided  himself  on  keeping  abreast  of  the 
times.  He  was  well-groomed  physically  and  mentally. 
He  discarded  last  year's  clothes  that  had  any  suspicion  of 
shiny  edges,  and  last  year's  ideas  for  the  same  reason  and 
with  equal  ease.  He  diagnosed  the  congregation  as  his 
friend,  Dr.  Orth,  diagnosed  a  patient,  and  unlike  the 
physician  of  bodies,  gave  to  the  diagnosed  what  it  wanted. 

In  all  this,  the  rector  was  not  altogether  insincere.  It 
might  be  said  with  reason  that  he  was  entirely  sincere. 
Dr.  Orth's  profession  made  strides  and  changed  its  text- 
books and  its  methods,  and  ministering  to  souls  need  not 
be  fixed  in  its  method  of  procedure!  All  life  groped, 
effort  felt  its  way,  progress  climbed  painfully  through 
mists. 

Dr.  Drake  did  not  insist  that  his  way  was  the  one  only 
way  to  be  saved.  He  saw  to  it,  however,  that  his  way 
was  a  very  nice  way,  and  this  practice  reacted  most  com- 
fortably on  St.  Giles'  treasury.  His  orthodoxy  was  of 
the  cushiony  order.  It  had  no  sharp  corners  nor  rough 
edges.  He  accepted  placidly  what  his  theological  alma 
mater  had  taught  him,  and  he  accepted  also  placidly  the 
little  modifications  that  became  advisable  now  and  again 
as  the  public  developed  symptoms  of  temperament. 

For  his  friend,  Dr.  Orth,  he  had  a  very  high  regard. 
The  physician  was  not  a  churchman,  but  his  orthodoxy 
was  sterner  and  more  strict  by  far  than  was  that  of  the 
rector  of  St.  Giles.  The  rector  noted  this  with  friendly 
sympathy  for  the  futility  of  such  a  high  standard.  Peo- 
ple, he  reflected,  were  pretty  much  of  a  muchness  the 
world  over,  and  one  must  not  expect  too  much  of  life  so 
complex.  His  own  genial  aspect  of  men  and  matters 
made  him  popular,  and  when  a  rude  wind  sometimes  blew 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  225 

over  a  leaf  that  bore  rough  reading,  the  rector  sighed 
regretfully  and  proceeded  to  forget  about  it  as  soon  as 
possible.  He  found  that  things  always  worked  out  some- 
how, and  there  was  really  no  need  of  growing  excited 
about  anything. 

"Quite  a  number  of  interesting  cases  awaiting  you, 
Orth,"  he  now  said,  as  the  doctor  placed  a  humidor  and 
matches  at  his  elbow.  "Goethe  said  he  wrote  you  about 
Ferriss.  Fine  thing  if  that  man  could  'come  back/ 
Clever  lawyer  and  an  interesting  man.  We  are  all 
anxious  to  see  what  those  wicked-looking  knives  of  yours 
will  do  for  him." 

The  cold  grey  eyes  showed  a  flicker  of  interest.  The 
little  game  of  life  and  death  when  Dr.  Orth  matched  his 
skill  against  an  unseen  foe,  when  his  nerves  of  finely 
tempered  steel  held  a  breath  fluttering  across  lips  damp 
with  death's  own  dews,  called  to  a  gambler's  instinct  that 
lived  under  the  inscrutable  exterior.  He  dared,  and  his 
daring  went  far  toward  the  little  guide-post  that  marked 
the  parting  of  the  ways.  But  the  steady  eye  and  hand, 
the  unemotional  and  unhurried  brain,  supported  his  dar- 
ing in  a  fashion  almost  uncanny,  and  his  confreres  knew 
that  it  was  not  science  alone,  but  the  psychic  signalling  of 
a  sixth  sense,  that  enabled  this  silent  man  to  stake  a  life 
on  seconds. 

"Yes,  Goethe  wants  me  to  see  him  soon.  He  has  been 
very  urgent  about  my  return  for  this — personally  much 
concerned,  it  seems." 

Mr.  Drake  nodded,  his  eyes  twinkling  with  interest 
through  the  smoke  of  his  cigar. 

"A  number  of  us  are  personally  concerned,"  he  cor- 
rected. "James  Ferriss  is  not  only  an  exceptional  man, 
but  he  educated  an  exceptional  daughter  along  his  own 
peculiar  lines,  with  results." 


226  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

He  smoked  vigorously  a  few  moments  while  the  other 
made  wreaths  and  watched  them  float  out  of  the  window 
with  half -closed  eyes. 

"Ferriss  believes  in  individualism  and  he  opened  to 
the  daughter  all  channels  of  knowledge.  He  accompanied 
her,  but  did  not  coerce.  He  advised,  but  did  not  dictate. 
She  grew  up  familiar  with  facts  as  well  as  theories.  And 
she  goes  to  facts — to  the  root  of  things,  with  a  startling 
indifference  to  what  is  customary.  When  the  smash 
came,  his  affairs  were  in  bad  shape  and  Miss  Ferriss  had 
to  be  the  bread-winner." 

A  cube  of  silver  ash  was  deposited  with  care  upon  the 
edge  of  a  bronze  tray,  and  Mr.  Drake  regarded  the 
glowing  end  of  his  cigar  thoughtfully. 

"She  opened  a  hospital — or  rather  took  over  one  that 
Moore  had — you  remember  Ike  Moore?  And  I  guess 
she  saw  enough  of  life  there  to  finish  the  education 
Ferriss  had  started.  Her  ideas  are  not — er — conven- 
tional. She  is  very  much  interested  in  children — sort 
of  adopted  a  lot  of  the  mill  district  youngsters  days, 
while  their  mothers  worked.  She  does  those  scratchy 
sketches  for  the  papers,  with  short  foot-note  stories  that 
have  a  'bite'  in  them.  And  some  months  ago  she — ah — 
had  a  child — a  boy." 

Some  more  smoke  wreaths  floated  out  of  the  window, 
then  Dr.  Orth  turned  his  gaze  upon  his  visitor  and  re- 
called his  own  thoughts  that  were  plainly  wandering. 

"You  were  saying ?  I  beg  your  pardon,  Drake! 

But  I  missed " 

"Well,  hang  it  all!"  the  perturbed  divine  exclaimed 
with  desperate  determination.  "You  will  have  to  under- 
stand the  situation  before  you  go  to  the  house,  and 
Goethe  won't  have  time  to  explain.  So  I  will  have  to 
tell  you." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE 

17"  ATE  STANLEY  and  Goethe  strongly  advised  her 
**•  to  go  away  and  let  the  story  blow  over,  as  it  would 
had  she  gone  at  once.  Nobody  could  prove  anything, 
you  see."  Mr.  Drake  explained  after  he  had  told  his 
story.  "But  Miss  Ferriss  would  not  even  argue  the 
matter.  According  to  her  viewpoint,  the  child  was  com- 
ing, it  was  her  child,  neither  it  nor  the  mother  was 
guilty  of  wrong,  so  what  was  there  to  conceal?  That 
a  lot  of  people  would  not  believe  her,  did  not  trouble  her 
in  the  least.  She  said  that  what  people  believed  or  what 
they  approved  had  nothing  to  do  with  what  'was.'  She 
was  very  much  interested  in  the  child,  and  the  ethical 
side  of  the  matter  did  not  interest  her  at  all.  It  was 
all  most  extraordinary  and  baffling." 

The  white  and  beautifully  cared-for  hands  of  the 
clergyman  were  lifted  in  a  despairing  gesture. 

"Ferncliff,  of  course,  was  divided  into  antithetical 
camps.  There  was  talk,  and  criticism,  and  scandal,  all 
the  way  from  the  Inn  down  to  the  mill.  But  the  subject 
herself  was  the  least  disturbed  of  any  one.  Of  course  it 
would  have  been  better — much  better — had  she  gone 
away.  But  she  declined,  with  entire  calmness,  and — • 
well,  one  must  admit  that  she  is  remarkable — extra- 
ordinary!  " 

Mr.  Drake  sighed  and  wiped  his  brow  with  a  snowy 
handkerchief  that  bore  his  crest  in  microscopic  char- 
acters in  one  corner.  The  stitchery  had  been  done  by 
one  of  his  aristocratic  parishioners,  for  whom  he  had 
a  tender  but  purely  platonic  regard.  Mrs.  Drake  was 

227 


228  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

an  estimable  helpmeet,  in  the  full  and  practical  sense  of 
the  word,  and  no  one  recognised  her  worth  more  than 
her  husband.  She  was  constructed  on  a  generous  scale 
— slightly  billowy  as  to  figure,  with  a  cheery  voice  that 
"carried"  and  a  healthy  interest  in  everything  and  every- 
body. She  was  a  clergyman's  daughter,  with  an  abound- 
ing executive  ability  that  simply  suffered  in  inaction,  and 
she  married  the  young  cu-rate's  vocation  with  the  young 
curate  himself  thrown  in. 

And  the  young  curate  himself,  as  the  comfortable 
years  rolled  on,  gave  thanks.  His  caution  had  selected 
this  energetic  helpmeet  who  managed  him  with  the 
same  large  enjoyment  with  which  she  managed  the 
Ladies'  Aid  Society  and  all  the  other  societies,  and  if 
he  ranked  as  rather  less  important  in  the  eyes  of  the 
bustling  lady  of  affairs,  she  at  least  never  neglected  the 
practical  matters  that  contributed  to  his  physical  well- 
being,  so  they  understood  each  other  perfectly  and  were 
excellent  friends. 

The  irreverent  younger  members  of  the  congregation 
used  to  whisper,  "Here  comes  the  High  Priestess  of 
pickles,  paupers  and  preserves!"  when  good  Mrs.  Drake 
would  sail  breezily  down  the  aisle,  sweeping  a  bright  and 
appraising  eye  over  the  well-bred  throng.  But  she  was 
undeniably  popular. 

The  wife  of  a  clergyman,  like  that  of  a  physician,  re- 
quires qualities  that  are  unique,  if  she  keep  the  battered 
little  bark  of  matrimony  off  the  rocks.  And  this  was 
something  that  Mrs.  Drake  understood  perfectly.  Mr. 
Drake's  large  and  sympathetic  personality,  his  well 
modulated  voice — and  he  sang  divinely)! — and  his 
breadth  of  view  where  tempted  and  oft-tripping  hu- 
manity was  concerned,  made  him  an  ideal  father  con- 
fessor as  well  as  a  delightful  friend,  and  the  members 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  229 

of  his  flock,  men  and  women,  young  and  old,  hailed  him 
variously  as  "a  brick"  and  "a.  dear." 

Incidentally,  if  eyes  softened  now  and  then  to  a 
slightly  tenderer  interest,  no  harm  was  done.  Mr.  Drake 
knew  exactly  the  amount  of  tender  interest  required  to 
hold  his  temperamental  parishioners  within  the  shelter 
of  St.  Giles ;  he  was  able  to  calculate  with  careful  nicety 
just  how  far  the  bridge  table  might  be  permitted  to  en- 
croach upon  the  plate,  and  the  incumbency  of  St.  Giles 
represented  to  its  rector  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  the 
desirable  things  of  life.  His  caution  would  never  per- 
mit him  to  risk,  in  the  smallest  degree,  the  litanies  and 
luxuries  that  rounded  out  existence  so  pleasantly  for  him 
in  Ferncliff. 

Consequently,  Mr.  Drake's  platonic  friendships,  while 
tender,  were  safe,  and  there  was  no  suggestion  of  a 
"divine  passion."  Divinity  might  direct  soul  to  soul, 
of  course,  where  mortal  laws  would  let  loose  the  tempest. 
But  Mr.  Drake  was  not  the  type  that  would  invite  the 
tempest.  He  was  satisfied  with  the  loaves  and  the  fishes 
that  abounded  in  the  Valley  of  Conventions.  And  in 
his  wisdom,  he  waxed  imposingly  fat  and  prospered, 
while  his  wife,  equally  endowed  with  the  world's  wisdom, 
blinked  tranquilly  at  the  tender  friendships  and  slept 
o'  nights. 

"My  wife  has  always  been  interested  in  Miss  Ferriss — 
Dr.  Stanley  introduced  them — and  she  upholds  her." 
The  rector  accepted  and  lighted  a  second  cigar,  then  re- 
sumed ; — a  suggestion  of  emotion  in  his  voice  disturbing 
for  once  the  careful  modulation  so  familiar  to  his  public : 
"You  see,  the  maternal  instinct  is  very  strong  in  Mrs. 
Drake  and  it  has  always  been — we — well,  a  child  would 
have  meant  much  to  my  wife — to  us  both " 

The  pleasant  eyes  lost  some  of  their  twinkle  as  their 


230  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

gaze  wandered  out  over  the  tree-tops  to  the  cloudless  blue 
that  veils  life's  explanations.  In  the  mill  district  so 
many  children  crowded  in  the  homes  that  were  so  shabby, 
and  so  many  of  the  children  were  unwanted  by  their 
weary  and  generally  draggled  mothers.  While  in  the 
stately  rectory,  with  its  spacious  park  where  the  Tiffany 
windows  of  St.  Giles  glowed  richly  through  the  shrub- 
bery, there  was  so  much  room  for  dancing  feet,  so  much 
silence  that  seemed  to  listen  for  a  child's  laughter ! 

"Of  course,  we  have  to  look  at  these  matters  from  a 
safely  conventional  viewpoint,"  Dr.  Drake  again  adopted 
his  pulpit  voice  with  a  sigh.  "But  it  is  very  difficult  to 
hold  to  one's  convictions  when  one  sees  June  Ferriss  and 
her  baby.  The  child  is  wonderfully  perfect  and  the 
mother's  mental  attitude  simply  places  her  on  another 
planet.  She  looks  down  on  us,  Orth! — positively  looks 
down  on  us,  politely  patient,  but  sympathetic,  by  Jove!" 

There  was  a  faint  smile  on  the  physician's  face  as  he 
rolled  his  cigar  reflectively  between  his  fingers. 

"Charitably  tolerant  of  our  limitations — is  that  it?  So 
you  have  a  rebel  in  your  camp,  Drake.  I  have  heard  of 
James  Ferriss — we  used  to  know  him  as  a  coming  man. 
The  daughter  of  such  a  man  ought  to  be  a  little  above 
the  average,  but  this  young  woman  would  seem  to  be 
ratherta  dangerous  type.  The  world  cannot  afford  in- 
dividual anarchy.  And  we  must  rely  upon  our  women 
to  keep  up  the  old  and  tried  standards.  Why  haven't  you 
converted  her?" 

The  clergyman  smiled  wryly  through  a  fragrant  silver 
cloud  that  he  sniffed  with  appreciation. 

"Perfect  leaf,  that!  Convert  her?  Why  didn't  I? 
Well,  I'll  tell  you  why  I  didn't  convert  her.  Oh,  I  tried 
all  right!  June  Ferriss  in  church  work  would  be  a 
power.  Mrs.  Drake  and  I  could  have  used  her  in  my 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  231 

diocese,  and  she  would  have  been  worth  six  ordinary 
lieutenants.  But  it  is  as  I  tell  you.  She  is  on  another 
planet — our  way  of  considering  things  simply  doesn't 
reach  her.  She  admits  that  she  is  pagan.  But  she  goes 
farther,  for  the  pagan  fears  his  gods  and  she  doesn't. 
I  had  a  serious  talk  with  her  one  evening — it  was  just 
before  the  child  came." 

He  looked  at  his  cigar  gravely,  then  laid  it  on  the 
tray  and  leaned  forward  on  the  broad  arms  of  the  chair, 
clasping  his  hands  before  him. 

"We  spoke  of  the  danger — she  is  not  strong,  and  she 
had  been  working  hard  for  a  very  long  time.  Goethe 
and  Dr.  Kate  were  nervous.  Well — I  asked  her  if  it 
would  not  be  better  to  let  her  scepticism  go — to  just 
accept  as  a  child,  and  feel  that  she  had  a  hand  in  the 
dark  that  was  coming.  She  was  lying  on  the  couch, 
and  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  me  with  an  odd 
little  smile.  And — well,  I  had  wanted  her  point  of 
view,  and  I  got  it!" 

He  remembered  well  the  calm,  clear-cut  sentences,  and 
he  gave  a  summary  of  them  to  Dr.  Orth.  He  had  been 
startled  and  dismayed,  and  as  he  looked  out  of  the 
window  he  was  seeing  again  the  white,  faintly  smiling 
face  on  the  cushion ;  he  was  hearing  the  low,  serene  voice 
of  James  Ferriss'  daughter. 

"Death  is  always  at  one's  elbow,  isn't  it?"  she  had 
said.  "Why  scramble  now  just  because  it  appears  in  a 
more  definite  form?  And  what  is  there  to  fear?  I  was 
not  consulted  about  being  born.  I  was  started  out  im- 
perfect. Deity  would  not  expect  perfect  results.  I  have 
just  done  the  best  I  could.  I  have  succeeded  in  some 
ways  and  failed  in  others  and  stumbled  along  somehow 
through  a  handicap.  And  now  why  whimper  ?  You  are 
a  gentleman  and  you  see  my  limitations  and  my  faults 


232  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

and  you  are  a  friend  in  spite  of  them.  You  do  not 
punish  me  for  them.  And  Deity  would  not  be  less  than 
a  gentleman,  would  he? 

"We  are  born  with  defects.  You  were  born  with 
just  so  much  will  power  to  overcome  or  hold  in  check 
those  defects.  I  was  born  with  just  so  much.  If  you 
have  more,  why  should  you  deserve  credit?  If  I  have 
less,  how  is  that  my  fault?  If  Deity  made  imperfection, 
isn't  that  his  problem,  instead  of  ours?  If  he  per- 
mitted Satan  to  mar  his  work,  is  not  that,  too,  his 
problem?  and  does  not  that  pre-suppose  a  higher  power 
than  God? 

"I  have  not  known  happiness.  My  father  was  good,  but 
his  life  was  all  wrong.  My  mother  was  narrow  and 
very  selfish.  She  is  dead,  but  that  does  not  change  the 
harm  she  did.  My  girlhood  was  darkened  by  their 
misery.  Later  came  trouble  still  deeper,  and  pain  and 
poverty.  You  have  to  know  trouble,  and  pain,  and  pov- 
erty, and  live  with  them  month  after  month,  to  under- 
stand. No  one  else  does.  Those  things  meant  wakeful 
nights  and  I  had  time  to  think.  I  am  not  bitter,  but  I 
call  things  by  their  own  names  and  see  them  as  they  are. 
And  I  know  that  I  have  endured  a  great  deal  and  have 
been  fairly  patient,  and  I  cannot  see  in  the  least  why  I 
should  now  grovel  and  implore  a  mediator  to  intercede 
for  me  because  I  am  not  better  than  I  am. 

"Instead  of  apologising  to  the  Power  that  put  me 
here,  I  sometimes  feel  that  that  Power  should  apologise 
to  me.  I  am  here,  a  pawn  in  a  game  that  I  cannot  see, 
very  tired,  not  well,  and  heckled  by  worry.  If  I  endure  it 
and  manage  to  be  courteous  to  my  fellowmen  till  the 
end  of  the  game  releases  me,  I  really  think  I  will  have 
done  rather  well. 

"There  are  many  lives  much  harder  and  more  cruel 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  233 

than  mine,  and  there  are  many,  like  your  own,  for  in- 
stance, that  run  tranquilly  and  quite  pleasantly  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave.  Life  is  not  just,  and  there  is 
no  guarantee  that  there  is  a  justice  after  life  that  will 
repay.  You  think  there  will  be,  but  you  do  not  know, 
any  more  than  I  do.  We  do  not  know  if  our  climb 
will  reach  a  goal  or  just  tumble  us  over  into  the  dark. 
And  either  way,  why  should  we  be  afraid?  We  have 
each  of  us  'some  strange,  dim  dream  of  God/  And  mine 
is  not  a  God  of  malice.  I  am  not  going  to  crawl  to  him, 
because  neither  my  sense  of  justice  nor  my  sense  of 
dignity  will  permit.  And  I  am  not  afraid  of  him.  If 
there  is  a  Judgment  bar,  I  am  quite  willing  to  hand  over 
my  little  record,  with  blots  and  blunders,  just  as  it  stands. 
But  I  am  certainly  not  going  to  cry  about  it. 

"As  for  death — if  it  means  justice  we  need  not  fear. 
And  if  it  means  just  the  tumble  into  the  dark — well, 
that  is  peace! " 

She  smiled,  but  there  was  the  wistful  timbre  of  a 
great  pity  in  her  voice. 

"Life,  when  all  is  said,  is  the  dance  of  the  marionettes, 
isn't  it?  The  weak  dance  to  the  tune  of  the  strong, 
greed  to  the  tune  of  gold,  dullness  to  the  tune  of  intelli- 
gence. And  all  to  the  tune  of  the  Unseen."  She  looked 
at  him  amusedly  a  moment.  "And  yet  you  'grave  and 
reverend  seigneurs'  assert  that  there  is  free-will!" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO 

BOB  says  if  you  don't  come  over  to  the  Inn  to  this 
pet  dinner  of  his  to-night,  he  won't  have  you  for 
his  next  wife.  So  now!  There  will  only  be  ten  of  us, 
and  you  know  most  of  them — Frank  and  Fan  Cutnmings, 
the  Vances,  Judge  Steel  and  Marian  Fleming,  Dr.  Orth 
and  yourself.  Bob  paired  you  with  the  ^Esculapius  and 
he  knows  things,  so  you  won't  be  bored,  you  snippy 
thing !  And  as  he  is  to  make  Dad  Ferriss  all  well  again, 
you  can  just  let  your  fussy  old  work  go  for  one  night 
and  get  back  in  civilisation  for  a  change.  I  don't  see 
why  you  need  cut  out  old  friends  and  old  times  just 
because  you  are  smart  enough  to  earn  your  own  living. 
I  would  starve  to  death,  and  I  admit  it.  But  I  approve 
of  you,  if  you  do  know  so  much  more  than  I  do.  So 
you  can  just  let  it  go  at  that,  and  come  on  back  with  me 
to  the  Inn  for  a  gossip  before  the  others  come  out  with 
Bob." 

"Toots"  Keith,  known  to  the  society  journals  as  the 
pretty  and  vivacious  wife  of  Senator  Robert  Keith,  was 
out  of  breath  with  earnestness  and  indignation.  She  was 
perched  like  a  brilliant  butterfly  on  the  couch,  hurling 
wrathful  arguments  at  her  old  school  friend,  which  she 
sandwiched  with  adoring  "Coo-oo-oos !"  to  June's  baby, 
who  was  blowing  rapturous  bubbles  on  his  rosebud  lips 
and  showing  his  appreciation  of  the  sweet  face  that  bent 
over  him  with  vocal  and  physical  enthusiasm.  Arms  and 
legs — one  foot  bare  and  therefore  kissed  frequently  by 
Mrs.  Keith — were  waving  joyously  in  the  air,  and  the 
young  gentleman  gurgled  and  gooed  mysterious  confi- 

234 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  235 

dences  and  mutual  jokes  to  the  brown  eyes  that  laughed 
down  at  him. 

"I  can't  leave  my  son — he  might  have  a  pain  in  his 
tummy,"  objected  June,  busy  at  her  drawing  board. 

"And  sure  it's  me  that  takes  care  of  thim  same  pains 
if  he  do!"  put  in  Nora,  who  had  returned  and  gathered 
the  reins  of  the  Ferriss  menage  back  into  her  jealous 
hands. 

"Nora! — you  treacherous  old  Irish  party!"  June  ex- 
claimed aggrievedly.  "Positively,  Toots,  I  don't  even 
own  my  own  baby  any  more.  He  simply  fell  into  that 
Irish  blarney  of  hers  heels  over  head,  and  believes  all 
she  says." 

"He  knows  his  own  Nora  can  raise  him,  that  raised 
his  mother,  an'  none  betther,  thin!"  proclaimed  Miss 
Casey  with  a  toss  of  her  head.  And  an  ecstatic  crow 
from  young  Master  Ferriss  left  his  reproachful  parent  in 
the  hopeless  minority. 

And  so  it  was  that  June  Ferriss,  in  a  long,  straight 
gown  of  pale  blue,  and  without  jewel  or  ornament, 
stood  by  the  open  French  window  that  evening,  as  her 
host  brought  to  her  a  man  whom  he  presented  as  "Dr. 
Orth." 

"The  doctor  is  to  take  you  in,  June.  And  consider 
her  placarded  in  advance,  doctor.  She  likes  to  find  out 
what  you  believe,  just  to  disagree  with  you.  Don't  com- 
mit yourself — keep  her  guessing.  That's  what  I  have 
to  do,  or  she  would  have  me  so  tangled  up  my  party 
would  disown  me." 

"Thanks  for  the  warning,  Senator!" 

Their  host  was  imperatively  called  by  a  laughing  group 
just  entering  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  and  June, 
half  in  the  soft  light  of  the  Keiths'  private  parlour,  half 
in  the  shadow  of  the  summer  night  outside,  bent  her 


236  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

head  with  a  slight,  grave  smile  to  the  man  who  stood 
beside  her. 

He  was  regarding  her  in  silence — a  silence  coldly 
speculative,  but  incurious.  He  was  only  a  little  taller 
than  herself,  but  he  was  a  man  who  would  be  observed 
and  commented  upon,  where  men  of  more  striking  ap- 
pearance would  be  passed  by.  His  walk  was  deliberate, 
he  rarely  made  a  gesture  when  he  spoke,  and  his  voice, 
though  it  had  an  unusual  depth  and  richness,  was  mark- 
edly unemotional.  The  vague  chill  of  his  reserve  and 
aloofness  kept  people  from  him,  as  by  an  impalpable 
wall,  and  yet  a  definite  and  impelling  personality  held 
them  in  unprotesting  subjection  to  his  will. 

Men  of  larger  physique,  of  pronounced  personality — 
men  voluble  of  speech  and  accustomed  to  command — 
men  of  position  and  of  affairs — came  into  his  presence 
with  audible  assertiveness.  But  the  still,  level  gaze  from 
under  moveless  lids;  the  words,  brief  and  cold;  the  face 
inscrutably  indifferent,  checked,  baffled,  and  frequently 
angered  them. 

The  man  they  saw  was  well-groomed,  quietly  attentive, 
low-voiced  and  courteously  patient.  But  what  they  could 
not  see,  they  felt — an  intangible,  brooding,  dominating 
Power  that  closed  as  inexorably  around  them  as  though 
it  were  a  visible  hand  of  steel. 

To  this,  the  men  who  were  his  peers  yielded,  glad  of 
a  strength  they  could  call  upon,  which  they  themselves 
could  not  match,  but  which  they  were  big  enough  to 
recognise  and  to  pay  deference  to. 

And  this  June  saw,  with  swift  intuition,  in  the  man 
who  was  looking  at  her  in  calm  silence.  And  though 
several  long  moments  had  slipped  their  grains  of  sand 
through  Time's  hour-glass  since  he  had  been  presented  to 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  237 

her,  she  realised,  with  an  oddly  pleasurable  sense  of  its 
strangeness,  that  neither  of  them  had  spoken. 

She  was  still  leaning  against  the  frame  of  the  French 
window,  where  the  vines  that  climbed  around  it  rested 
on  her  hair.  Her  perfect  quiet  matched  his  own,  and 
his  speculative  regard  met  a  regard  that  rested  upon  him 
with  a  calm  and  unhurried  appraisal,  and  that  set  aside, 
with  a  cool  indifference  that  he  recognised  grimly  as 
unique  with  himself,  the  need  of  speech. 

"Dinner! — Dinner,  good  people!  Come,  June  and 
Dr.  Orth.  That  motor  jaunt  from  the  City  always 
starves  the  pilgrims,  so  let  us  feed  them  before  they 
become  dangerous." 

Mrs.  Keith's  gay  treble  rose  over  the  laughter  and 
wrangling,  and  young  Mrs.  Vance,  slipping  her  hand  into 
the  arm  offered  by  her  host,  also  called  over  her  shoulder 
as  they  fell  in  line  behind  "Mrs.  Bob"  and  Mr.  Cum- 
mings : 

"En  avant,  June  Ferriss !  I  don't  know  what  she  has 
told  you,  Doctor,  but  don't  you  believe  her!" 

"Malicious  libel!  But  don't  you  care,  June,"  Mr. 
Vance  said  sympathetically.  "The  drones  always  make 
a  fuss  and  get  jealous  of  hard-working  bees  like  you  and 
myself." 

"Hard  working!"  cried  his  wife  witheringly.  "When 
that  man  used  to  come  courting  me,  he  drove  Vixen — 
that  blue  ribbon  cob — and  that  high  dog-cart  he  had 
would  take  the  corner  on  one  wheel.  Dash !  Why,  my 
breath  used  to  be  taken  away,  Charlie  was  that  dashy. 
I  was  certain  he  would  be  president  some  day,  and  so 
I  married  him.  And  then  I  found  out  it  was  all  Vixen ! 
Charlie  is  president — of  the  polo  club!  And  his  ponies 
keep  him  president  of  that." 

"I  appeal  to  the  court!    Name  your  retainer,  Judge!" 


238  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

Marian  Fleming  laughed  as  Mr.  Vance  seated  her  and 
turned  aggrievedly  to  Judge  Steel. 

"Serves  you  right,  Charlie,"  she  jeered.  "I  told  you 
I  had  a  lovely  disposition  and  that  Nell  was  catty,  before 
you  married  her.  But  Nell  made  you  think  you  were 
going  to  rebuild  Rome,  so  you  may  just  take  your 
medicine." 

"Oh,  well,  Charlie  does  architect  awfully  nice  bank 
and  library  things,  and  all  that,"  his  wife  admitted. 
"But  one  can't  get  excited  about  buildings  all  squashed 
up  like  bread-and-butter  plates  on  edge,  as  we  have  them 
in  this  country.  We  wouldn't  know  we  had  any  archi- 
tecture if  it  were  not  for  the  post-cards.  And  when  I 
see  one  of  those  high-coloured  'famous'  buildings  of 
ours,  I  always  want  to  ask  a  policeman  where  it  is." 

"Well,  we  unexciting  hard-workers  manage  to  squeeze 
out  a  good  many  of  those  jingly  gowns  you  have  on, 
through  those  butter-plate  ouildings,  anyhow,"  her  hus- 
band reminded  her.  "You  lovely  ladies  can  do  the  glory 
act  in  our  country.  We  don't  aspire." 

The  chaffing  swept  around  the  table  in  the  private 
dining-room,  which  was  lighted  very  softly  by  shaded 
candles.  The  pretty,  animated  women  in  their  glinting 
evening  gowns,  the  shrewd  men  who  were  of  the  best 
American  type,  relaxing  from  the  fierce  tension  of  the 
City  day  to  play  "Jock — a  boy"  for  an  evening — the 
fragrance  of  flowers,  the  tender  plaint  of  distant  violins 
— all  these  made  the  hour  and  the  scene  replete  with 
charm.  June  enjoyed  it  lazily.  Her  work  no  longer 
permitted  the  irregular  hours  that  pleasuring  entailed, 
and  since  the  shift  of  scene  had  swung  her  away  from 
its  care-free  thoughtlessness  into  the  swift  and  bitter 
waters  where  Life  ate  through  shale  and  rock  and  lower- 
ing canyon,  the  butterfly  nonsense  that  had  once  whiled 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  239 

away  the  days  so  delightfully  no  longer  held  her  interest 
for  long. 

She  was  not  a  part  of  it  any  more.  She  had  eaten 
of  the  pomegranate,  and  the  veil  of  dreadful  things  had 
been  lifted  to  her  shrinking  sight.  To  those  who  have 
had  this  vision,  laughter  never  comes  again  with  fulness 
from  the  heart. 

But  she  let  herself  drift  through  its  hour  of  play-time, 
sensing  its  incompleteness  and  not  sorry  for  the  stern 
demand  of  need,  that  numbed  the  questioning  of  mind 
and  heart,  that  would  bring  the  morrow's  labour. 

"So  you  toil — you  are  an  artist,  I  understand  ?" 

Her  lazily  smiling  eyes  lifted  slowly  to  the  unsmiling 
gaze  that  rested  on  her  face. 

"Dear  me,  no!"  she  protested  drily.  "I  work — 'yes. 
I  am  a  syndicate-sketchist !" 

"But  your  pictures ?" 

She  lifted  her  white,  unringed  hands  with  a  slight 
gesture  of  repudiation,  then  dropped  them  idly  back  on 
the  mahogany. 

"Pray  do  not  confuse  the  syndicate  grind  with  artistry, 
my  dear  Dr.  Orth,"  she  replied  amusedly.  "We  are 
familiarly,  if  not  poetically,  known  as  'hacks.'  We  work 
by  the  foot — so  much  measurement  per  week.  If  we 
start  in  with  dreams  they  do  not  last  long.  Our  only 
inspiration  is  the  recurrent  fact  of  the  first  of  the  month." 

His  silence  was  meditative,  and  she  accepted  it,  as  she 
accepted  the  man — '"strange  and  peculiar" — beside  her 
with  distinctly  growing  interest.  Between  the  courses 
her  hands  lay  stilly  on  the  table,  except  for  one  slender 
finger  that  gently  smoothed  the  petal  of  a  rose  that  lay 
beside  her  silver.  She  did  not  fidget  with  the  wine- 
glasses nor  in  her  chair,  where  she  leaned  back  easily. 
Her  silence,  too,  was  meditative,  but  he  was  conscious 


240  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

of  a  mind  at  work  and  that  played  around  the  grim 
barrier  that  his  own  had  raised  between  itself  and  the 
world,  with  the  swift,  silent  insistence  of  heat-lightning. 

The  instinct  of  a  lifetime  of  habit  rose  in  defence.  The 
instinct  of  a  long  line  of  stern  New  England  forbears 
turned  a  front  of  stone  to  this  rebel  mind  that  probed 
its  traditions  and  overturned  its  gods.  With  those  dead 
men  and  women  of  iron  probity,  "women  should  be  silent 
in  the  churches."  This  had  come  down  to  the  man  sit- 
ting in  the  soft  warmth  of  light  and  colour,  a  part  of  his 
blood  and  bone.  Women  were  silent — in  and  out  of  the 
churches — which  meant  obedient  to  the  established  order 
of  things. 

The  daughter  of  James  Ferriss  was  anathema  to  every 
tenet  that  hedged  the  female  of  his  people.  Science  had 
wrested  from  him  some  of  the  beliefs  to  which  his 
fathers  had  bent  the  knee,  and  in  these  he  yielded  to  his 
inexorable  intelligence  only  because  of  the  stern  hon- 
esty that  was  also  his  by  inheritance.  But  these  con- 
cessions to  modern  research  and  his  own  developed  brain 
he  made  as  part  of  man's  evolution.  They  had  no  kin 
with  the  ideas  of  this  woman  beside  him,  whose  face 
dreamed  palely  in  the  dim  light  of  the  candles.  She  had 
forced  her  way  through  the  safe  hedge  of  prejudices 
that  had  held  the  women  of  his  race  to  beaten  paths,  and 
she  had  climbed  an  unbroken  way  that  led  where  it  was 
wild  and  perilous;  that  endangered,  and  made  her  con- 
spicuous. 

And  this  disregard  of  the  sanctity  of  long  custom 
annoyed  him,  because  it  disturbed  beliefs  rooted  deep  in 
a  past  that  had  never  questioned.  Then  he  realised  that, 
under  cover  of  the  light  raillery  of  well-bred  people,  the 
rippling  laughter  and  undertone  of  distant  music,  this 
annoyance  was  becoming  a  definite  thing,  that  he  re- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  241 

sented  the  more  because  the  cause  of  it  was,  he  knew, 
aware  of  it,  and  was  making  no  effort  to  placate  him. 

He  found  that  he  was  explaining  to  himself  why  he 
disapproved  of  her.  In  her  silence  he  read  tranquil 
but  detached  interest  in  his  point  of  view.  And  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  for  some  inexplicable  and  astonishing 
reason,  there  seemed  to  be  a  call  for  its  justification. 

Again  he  felt  rise  within  him  the  instinct  of  defence, 
and  his  face  hardened.  To  women,  as  women,  he  paid 
but  little  attention.  It  was  always  something  of  an 
effort  to  lend  himself  to  the  light  banalities  that  passed 
for  conversation  on  those  occasions  when,  as  now,  his 
world  called  him  to  take  part  in  its  social  side.  He  was 
not  a  hermit  by  nature — he  needed,  and  found,  pleasure 
in  the  society  of  his  kind.  He  enjoyed  the  nonsense 
when  men  of  affairs  relaxed  and  the  women  of  his  order 
made  part  of  a  charming  picture. 

But  it  was  not  always  easy  to  keep  pace  with  the  froth 
of  jest  that  scintillated  and  sparkled  with  the  airy  tran- 
science  of  snow  crystals  in  the  sunlight.  The  burden  of 
his  own  affairs  dragged  at  him  with  a  heavy  hand,  and 
very  often  a  sense  of  sudden,  extreme  tiredness  bore  him 
down  just  when  the  gaiety  of  an  evening  was  at  its 
height. 

And  to-night  he  looked  at  the  bright  face  of  his 
hostess  with  a  vague  sense  of  irritation.  Why  had  she 
arranged  her  people  as  she  did?  She  was  credited  with 
tact,  so  essential  in  the  social  world  in  which  she  shone 
by  right  of  birth  and  training.  Why,  then,  had  she  not 
paired  her  school-mate  with  the  Senator,  for  instance, 
who  had  known  her  as  a  child — instead  of  with  him  ? 

It  was  not  that  he  was  narrow — so  he  told  himself.  He 
was  a  man  of  the  world  and  looked  upon  life  with  the 
wide  regard  of  much  and  varied  experience.  But  his 


242  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

habitual  reserve,  that  walled  in  his  thought  as  the  ivied 
wall  hides  the  English  home  from  prying  eyes,  shrank 
in  strong  distaste  from  the  spirit  that  gave  battle  in  the 
open  for  the  sake  of  an  idea,  and  that  drew  upon  itself 
the  condemnatory  attention  of  the  public. 

While  the  idea  itself  might  possibly  have  an  element 
that  would  lend  it  extenuation,  the  price  paid  was  too 
great  and  startling.  Noblesse  oblige — and  a  gentle- 
woman owed  much  to  the  unwritten  laws  that  so  jeal- 
ously guarded  her  dignity  and  fair  name. 

Charlie  Vance,  on  her  left,  had  claimed  June's  atten- 
tion and  her  head  was  slightly  bent  toward  him  as  he 
told  her  of  an  accident  to  one  of  his  polo  ponies.  Her 
face  and  attitude  were  gravely  sympathetic,  but  the  sur- 
geon, who  was  now  studying  her  with  eyes  coldly  hostile, 
realised  with  a  paradoxical  feeling  of  satisfaction  that 
the  confidences  were  falling  on  unheeding  ears.  That 
play  of  heat  lightning,  silent,  unseen — the  flame-phantom 
of  horizons  dark  with  secrecy — was  reaching  around  the 
mirth  and  animation  of  the  dinner  group,  to  him.  And 
against  his  will,  his  hostility  held  its  hand. 

Mrs.  Cummings,  on  his  right,  was  appealing  to  him 
plaintively  to  support  her  in  an  argument  she  was  having 
with  Judge  Steel.  He  turned  to  her  obediently  and 
joined  in  the  banter  that  danced  as  lightly  as  thistle- 
down back  and  forth  across  the  round  table.  The  ques- 
tion that  had  arisen  was  that  of  granting  the  franchise 
to  women,  and  as  those  at  the  table  were  about  equally 
divided  in  opinion,  the  arguments,  though  laughing, 
were  more  or  less  earnest. 

Charlie  Vance  had  torn  his  mind  from  his  ponies  to 
protest  against  the  militant  type  as  a  desecration  of  all 
the  accepted  ideals  of  sweet  womanhood.  Mrs.  Vance 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  243 

could  not  see  why  she  would  not  be  just  as  sweet  with 
her  rights  as  she  was  deprived  of  them. 

June  was  not  taking  part  in  the  little  war  of  words, 
and  Dr.  Orth  at  last  turned  to  her.  Their  voices  sank 
and  they  were  unnoticed  by  the  gay  disputants. 

"You  are  not  interested  in  the  franchise?"  he  asked. 

"On  the  contrary — I  am  interested  very  much,"  she 
replied. 

"But  you  do  not  approve  the  mad  methods  that  obtain 
in  England?" 

"Tout  comprendre,  c'est  tout  pardoner.  Is  our  ap- 
proval or  disapproval  worth  much  unless  we  know  ?  Have 
you  lived  among  working  women?  Have  you  studied 
and  liked  and  suffered  with  them?  Do  you  know  what 
the  conditions  are  over  there  that  have  made  women 
who  are  naturally  refined  and  reserved  and  gentle  into 
the  fanatics  they  seem  to  be?" 

"I  do  not  think  any  knowledge  along  those  lines  could 
enlist  my  sympathies  for  pyromaniacs,"  he  said  coldly. 

"And  yet — you  are  a  physician !"  June  said  gently. 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  would  say  that  it  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it!" 
Her  voice  was  quite  tranquil  and  her  gaze  did  not  lift 
from  the  rose  that  the  one  finger  was  again  caressing 
gently.  "Your  profession  knows  by  observation  what 
we  women  who  work  know  by  experience.  You  know 
that  there  is  a  limit  to  endurance.  That  limit  is  rebellion, 
or  madness,  or  death.  Those  starved  pack-mules  of  Eng- 
land that  we  call  women  have  endured.  Some  have  en- 
dured in  silence,  some  have  prayed,  some  have  cursed. 
They  have  bred  little,  tender  girl-children  and  watched 
them  pass  from  starved  girlhood  into  pack-mule  woman- 
hood. They  have  watched  some  of  them  die  and  some 
of  them  go  bad.  And  the  iron  of  their  own  suffering  has 


244  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

corroded  in  their  breasts  as  they  looked  upon  corpse  and 
prostitute — things  that  were  once  their  own  little  babies." 

"That  sort  of  thing  is  all  newspaper  stories." 

June  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  rose  to  the  slate-grey 
eyes  of  chill  unbelief,  and  as  gaze  met  gaze,  antagonistic 
wills  crossed  swords.  Then  she  answered,  her  voice  as 
quietly  chill  as  his  own : 

"As  it  happens,  the  newspapers  of  England,  like  most 
of  our  own,  dance  to  the  tune  of  their  masters.  The 
pack-mules  neither  advertise  nor  own  stock,  my  dear  Dr. 
Orth." 

A  black-coated  waiter  leaned  between  them  to  fill  their 
wine  glasses.  When  he  had  passed  on,  Dr.  Orth  said 
•with  courteous  irony: 

"So  you  advocate  burning  historic  buildings  as  a 
sign  of  emancipation?" 

June  turned  her  glass  by  its  thin  stem,  watching  the 
prismatic  colours  as  the  wine  glowed  richly  in  the  light 
of  the  candles.  When  she  spoke,  the  little  chill  that  had 
hardened  her  voice  had  gone — it  was  low  and  steady,  but 
it  dragged  tiredly. 

"I  understand  burning  historic  buildings  as  a  sign 
our  own  South  was  familiar  with,"  she  said.  "The  slave 
uprisings  knew  nothing  of  historic  values,  but  they  knew 
a  good  deal  about  girls  sold  on  the  block  and  seduced 
under  the  lash." 

With  a  burst  of  laughter  and  jeering,  chairs  were 
pushed  back  from  the  table,  and  under  cover  of  the  noise 
Dr.  Orth  enquired: 

"And  the  destruction  of  English  property  has  accom- 
plished how  much,  Miss  Ferriss?" 

As  he  drew  her  chair  aside  for  her  to  pass  in  the  wake 
of  their  hostess,  June  lifted  her  head  and  faced  him. 

"It  has  enabled  me  to  draw  the  attention  of  an  eminent 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  245 

surgeon  to  a  matter  of  world-wide  importance,  in  which 
he  hitherto  had  apparently  no  interest  whatever.  That  is 
exactly  what  the  pyromaniacs  intended  to  do,  Dr.  Orth." 

After  cigars,  when  they  rejoined  the  women,  the  men 
were  informed  that  June  was  gone. 

"You  will  have  to  play  with  a  dummy,"  Mrs.  Keith 
cried,  busy  with  card  tables.  "June  won't  play  cards  any 
more  and  she  only  agreed  to  dinner.  So  she  has  gone 
home.  It's  a  shame  how  she  has  renounced  the  world,  the 
flesh  and  the  devil,  to  say  nothing  of  the  rest  of  us!" 

"Can't  you  convince  her  that  it  is  necessary  for  her  to 
frivol  now  and  then,  Doctor?"  the  senator  asked.  "  'All 
work  and  no  play,'  you  know!" 

Cards  were  shuffled  and  play  began,  with  a  running  fire 
of  banter  that  kept  the  game  from  the  absorption  that  so 
often  turns  game  into  gambling.  Dr.  Orth  was  a  good 
partner  and  played  scientifically.  The  disturbing  element 
was  gone,  as  he  had  wished.  A  woman  who  could  con- 
done any  phase  of  arson  was  a  dangerous  woman,  a  type 
disturbing  and  objectionable.  It  was  a  good  thing  she 
was  gone.  She  did  not  any  longer  "belong."  These  peo- 
ple were  good-natured  and  broad-minded,  but  they  re- 
spected laws  and :  custom.  Those  who  did  not  were  a 
menace. 

The  world's  conservative  element  had  evolved  certain 
barriers  and  restrictions  that  were  required  for  general 
peace  and  protection.  For  a  woman  to  set  herself  up 
as  a  critic  of  these  tried  and  accepted  barriers  was  pre- 
sumption. For  a  woman  to  step  from  the  modest  re- 
tirement of  her  femininity  into  the  limelight  of  her 
immediate  world  was  worse. 

The  friends  of  James  Ferriss  and  his  daughter  nat- 
urally defended  her.  But  the  women  of  Dr.  Orth's 
family,  had  tragic  circumstance  touched  them  as  it  had 


246  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

June,  would  have  retired  from  the  world  and  the  world 
have  known  them  no  more. 

June's  undisturbed  acceptance  of  motherhood,  her  quite 
sincere  and  equally  complete  indifference  to  the  whispers 
of  those  who  were  her  detractors,  her  frank  delight  in  her 
handsome  baby — all  this  meant  nothing  less  than  anarchis- 
tic war  against  all  that  was  holy  in  tradition  and  precedent. 
She  not  only  flatly  declined  the  apologetic  and  crushed 
role  that  conservative  Ferncliff  considered  the  only  pos- 
sible attitude  under  the  sad  circumstances,  but  she  lifted 
a  level  and  quite  pleasant  stare  of  uncomprehension  at 
the  two  or  three  well-meaning  but  distressed  ladies  who 
ventured  to  call  at  the  bungalow,  to  kindly  advise  the 
equivalent  of  a  nunnery.  And  the  ladies  retired  in 
disorder. 

And  this  Dr.  Orth  disapproved,  as  he  disapproved 
anything  in  woman  that  failed  of  old  and  safe  ideals. 
His  own  impregnable  reserve,  where  his  affairs  and 
opinions  were  concerned,  accentuated  the  disapproval. 
He  believed  in  the  "established  order"  for  the  general 
good,  and  that  for  it  the  individual  should  suffer.  June 
Ferriss'  iconoclastic  overturning  of  this  had  the  double 
offence  in  his  eyes  of  iconoclasm  and  ^ex.  She  not  only 
destroyed,  but  the  destroyer  was  a  woman. 

"Doctor!— Dr.  Orth!" 

A  shout  of  derisive  laughter  greeted  Mrs.  Keith's 
anguished  cry,  and  Charlie  Vance  slapped  his  cards 
briskly  on  the  table. 

"You  always  will  grab  the  doc  for  your  partner,  Toots, 
so  take  your  medicine  and  look  pleasant.  Aw-ful\y 
obliged,  Doc.  Dee-lighted,  I  assure  you !" 

The  surgeon,  a  wave  of  sudden  and  extreme  annoy- 
ance sweeping  over  him,  dragged  the  disciplined  mind, 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  247 

that  had  never  before  played  him  false,  back  from  alien 
and  rebellious  places,  to  the  quietly  handsome  modern 
drawing-room  and  its  irreproachable  occupants.  On  his 
face,  usually  inscrutably  masked,  disturbance  was  writ 
large,  and  little  Mrs.  Keith  was  partially  comforted  for 
her  trumped  ace.  But  her  partner  saw  eyes  that  met 
his,  calm,  undisturbed,  vaguely  mocking,  and  with  a 
warmth  of  anger  as  new  as  it  was  disturbing,  he  added 
his  blunder  to  the  already  serious  counts  he  had  against 
her. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE 

A  WEEK  later  June  stood  at  a  window  in  Dr.  Orth's 
private  hospital,  awaiting  the  verdict  from  the 
operating  room.  She  had  been  waiting  there  a  long  time, 
but  time  seemed  to  stand  still,  and  she  was  only  con- 
scious that  every  little  while  a  sense  of  suffocation  made 
her  realise  that  she  was  holding  her  breath  in  an  intense 
effort  to  hear  some  sound  from  that  closed  room  down 
the  hall. 

Death  was  hovering  close,  she  knew.  She  was  risking 
everything  on  the  one  throw  of  the  dice.  James  Ferriss 
would  recover  with  every  probability  of  his  being  as 
well  mentally  and  physically  as  he  had  ever  been — or  he 
would  not  recover  at  all.  Which  way  the  scales  would 
tilt  was  a  gamble. 

A  very  soft,  mellow  chime  from  an  onyx  clock  over  the 
fireplace  floated  on  the  stillness  of  the  room,  and  she 
held  her  breath  again  as  she  counted  the  muffled  blows 
of  the  hidden  hammer.  When  they  ceased,  she  leaned 
against  the  window  frame  with  a  feeling  of  sick  fear 
passing  through  her.  The  operation  was  lasting  a  long 
time,  longer  than  had  been  expected,  and  that  was  not  a 
good  sign. 

James  Ferriss  was  close  to  the  edge  of  things — the  tall, 
quiet  man  with  the  tender  humorous  eyes  who  had  always 
laughed  with  and  never  at  her,  who  had  always  "under- 
stood." He  had  been  a  tower  of  strength  even  in  his 
invalidism.  His  mental  activities  had  never  been  dis- 
torted nor  weak.  They  seemed  to  be  rather  withheld, 
as  though  a  hand  had  placed  a  dark  shutter  across  the 

248 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  249 

lens,  blotting  out  the  world  and  its  affairs.  At  intervals 
the  mind  thrust  itself  by  this  barrier,  but  impotently  and 
wearily.  And  the  effort  was  always  followed  by  great 
exhaustion  of  the  body. 

Yet  even  in  the  fluctuating  strength  that  necessitated 
his  being  shielded  from  the  strain  and  confusion  of  active 
life,  he  was  a  power  that  guarded  and  turned  from  his 
daughter  the  more  envenomed  shafts  of  criticism  and 
censure.  He  accepted  the  fact  of  her  motherhood  with 
the  same  loving  gentleness  with  which  his  arms  gathered 
to  him  the  warm,  sweet  helplessness  of  the  baby's  little 
body.  The  thin,  white  hand  with  which  he  carefully 
touched  the  golden  down  on  the  baby's  head,  crowned 
it  with  the  larger  Fatherhood.  The  brand  that  the  world 
in  its  appalling  and  oaf-like  stupidity  would  have  placed 
there  was  as  abhorrent  to  him  as  the  act  of  the  Congo 
butchers  who  mutilated  children.  This  senseless,  illogical 
and  astonishing  brutality  perpetrated  in  the  name  of 
morality  and  right — in  the  name  of  a  Man  who  had 
blessed  little  children  and  had  warned  those  who  would 
harm  them  of  a  divine  vengeance — always  brought  into 
the  kind  eyes  of  James  Ferriss  a  glint  of  red  fire. 

"You  will  find  your  bastards  in  wedlock,"  he  had  told 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Drake  one  evening,  when  that  unhappy 
gentleman  had  blundered  into  an  unctuous  defence  of 
the  "established  order."  "If  you  brand,  you  excellent 
people,  for  God's  sake  be  honest  about  it.  If  you  must 
damn  helpless  infants  in  this  world,  as  well  as  the  next, 
go  on  and  damn.  But  don't  stop  with  the  children  of 
those  who  love.  Damn  the  unclean  fruitage  of  legalised 
infamy.  And  while  you  are  about  it,  wouldn't  it  be  a 
good  idea  for  some  of  these  busy  people  to  get  still  more 
busy  and  find  out  just  what  kind  of  a  child  the  God  they 
are  busy  for  wants  them  to  damn?  Would  you  mind 


250  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

showing  me  in  your  Bible  what  ceremony  makes  a  child 
legitimate?  We  have  several  hundred.  The  Baptist 
won't  recognise  Salt  Lake,  and  the  Catholic  won't  recog- 
nise the  Baptist.  A  countrywoman  of  ours  divorces  a 
creature  who  outrages  her  womanhood  in  the  name  of 
husband,  and  she  marries  a  man  who  worships  her. 
Canada's  law  calls  her  a  kept-woman.  Well?  Who  is 
right  ?  What  child  is  illegitimate  ?  Does  your  God  marry 
souls  or  bodies?  Does  he  want  the  children  of  passion 
in  the  highest,  or  the  spawn  of  wedded  lust?  You  say 
these  laws  are  necessary  for  the  controlling  of  the  masses. 
Are  they  controlling  them?  And  are  the  masses  more 
important  than  the  clean  and  complete  living  of  my  own 
and  several  million  other  souls?  No,  I  am  not  advocat- 
ing free  love.  But  I  advocate  freedom  to  love,  when  love 
finds  its  own.  I  advocate  laws  that  are  not  asinine — 
laws  that  will  give  freedom  to  two  adult  people  who 
ask  for  it  in  the  name  of  their  own  decency  and  self- 
respect.  They  won't  now  because  they  call  it  'collusion' ! 
By  all  the  gods  of  common  sense !  And  they  won't  now  if 
the  judge  happens  to  have  a  bad  digestion.  In  the  name 
of  all  logic,  will  you  tell  me  why  any  other  man  has  the 
right  to  tell  me  a  woman  and  myself  must  live  together 
when  neither  of  us  wishes  it?  And  when  only  one 
wants  freedom,  who  has  the  right  to  quote  'law'  to  hold 
that  one?  Ask  Carl  Goethe  what  marriage  discloses  to 
many  men  and  women.  Ask  him  if  a  delicate  woman, 
a  self-respecting  man,  should  be  called  upon  to  inform 
a  gaping  public  why  a  release  is  wanted.  Ask  any 
physician  to  give  you  a  few  details,  and  then  tell  me  what 
possible  business  it  is  of  a  legislature  whether  a  marriage 
should  be  annulled  or  not.  The  idea  is  a  vulgar  and 
colossal  impertinence.  Protect  the  support  of  women 
and  children  by  every  law  you  can  enact,  but  in  the  name 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  251 

of  physics  and  morality  and  clean  living,  stop  making 
marriage  a  prison  of  souls  and  a  brothel  of  bodies.  Stop 
planting  your  great,  stupid  hoof  on  the  thousands  of 
helpless  children  who  cannot  defend  themselves,  and 
whose  first  lesson  of  'humanity'  is  when  you  crush  them 
for  life,  heart  and  soul,  with  your  infamous  and  dastardly 
insult  of  'bastardy.'  That  is  a  word  that  should  be 
expurgated,  that  should  be  repudiated  by  every  man  and 
woman  not  in  an  asylum  for  idiots.  That  is  a  word  the 
church  has  rolled  on  its  cowardly  tongue,  that  the  law 
has  used  in  its  inquisition  chambers,  that  society  has 
glutted  its  salacious  appetite  on  for  centuries.  Church, 
law  and  society ! — to  their  everlasting  and  eternal  shame 
be  it  said!" 

The  reverend  gentleman  who  had  bowed  to  the  wrath 
that  swept  over  all  he  represented  like  a  prairie  con- 
flagration, remembered  the  sentiments  of  Mr.  Ferriss 
when  the  day  came  that  the  latter's  daughter  faced  the 
problem  and  stepped  serenely  over  the  pillory  her  world 
had  prepared  for  her. 

And  on  the  narrow,  exposed  height  on  which  she 
placed  herself  as  by  divine  right,  he  and  the  sensible 
woman  who  bore  his  name  ranged  themselves  beside  her 
with  a  simple  dignity  that  forbade  protest. 

Her  other  friends  joined  them,  but  June's  calm  gaze 
enforced  the  attitude  of  all.  There  was  no  question  of 
"condoning."  They  were  there  because  they  defended, 
not  the  woman,  but  the  fact  itself. 

But,  comfortable  as  was  the  knowledge  of  "ain  tried 
friends,"  it  was  the  man  whose  blood  flowed  in  her 
veins  who  meant  refuge.  Strong  as  she  was  in  defence 
of  that  which  her  reason  approved,  the  spirit  would  of 
necessity  flag  with  the  flagging  body,  and  the  hostility 
that  reached  her  by  many  channels  often  bruised,  as  the 


252  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

wayfarer  through  unfriendly  roads  is  bruised  by  thrown 
pebbles  that  hurt,  even  though  they  do  not  swerve  him 
from  his  course. 

The  very  passion  of  her  convictions  that  burned  away 
the  sophistries  that  satisfied  the  many,  burned  away  also 
the  placidities  that  buried  the  nerves  under  their  com- 
fortable layers  of  cotton.  Her  nerves  were  bare  to  the 
barbed  arrows  of  misunderstanding  and  censure,  even 
while  she  reared  her  head  and  faced  them  unflinchingly. 
Her  sensibilities  quivered  like  naked  wires  in  winds  that 
struck  them  like  a  rough  hand. 

She  suffered,  as  those  must  who  will  deal  in  neither 
compromise  nor  concession  for  the  sake  of  popularity. 
And  because  she  suffered,  so  now  she  suffered  in  retro- 
spect as  she  cowered  against  the  window  and  realised 
that  the  endurance  that  had  carried  her  so  far  owed 
much  to  the  man  battling  with  death  in  the  operating 
room. 

A  tramp  passed  on  the  sidewalk,  and  her  eyes  fol- 
lowed him  in  bitter  misery.  He  was  unshaven,  dirty, 
with  a  face  showing  the  ravages  of  dissipation  and  dis- 
ease. But  he  shuffled  along  in  the  sunlight,  whistling 
in  lazy  enjoyment,  and  she  saw  in  him  life  still  burning 
strongly,  while  it  flickered  and  failed  in  that  room  be- 
hind her,  where  white-robed,  silent  men  and  women 
nursed  and  fed  it  with  every  delicate  method  known  to 
a  great  and  wonderful  science. 

It  seemed  such  a  blunder,  this  survival  of  the  unfit. 
The  ragged,  unbathed  derelict  slouching  in  the  street,  a 
thing  of  the  gutter,  an  ulcer  on  the  fair  face  of  Nature, 
was  there  with  years  yet,  perhaps,  before  him  in  which 
to  breed  his  physically  and  morally  tainted  kind.  And  the 
high-bred,  cameo-pure  face  on  the  little,  flat  pillow  might 
in  another  hour  be  covered  with  the  white  napkin  that 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  253 

shields  from  curious  day  the  austere  calm  of  the  dead! 

The  pity  of  it — the  fearful,  fearful  pity  of  it — • 
wrenched  at  the  girl's  heart  in  an  agony  of  protest  and 
pain.  She  lifted  her  clenched  hands  at  the  retreating 
form  of  the  tramp,  as  though  she  could  strike  him  down 
for  daring  to  live  while  great  lives  passed  out  from  a 
world  that  needed  them  so  terribly. 

Then  the  hands  swept  back  against  the  window  to 
support  her,  as  she  wheeled  at  the  sound  of  a  step  on 
the  threshold. 

It  was  the  surgeon,  Dr.  Orth,  and  he  dropped  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder,  giving  it  a  sharp  shake. 

"It  is  all  right.  Don't  look  like  that!  And  don't 
faint.  This  is  no  time  for  that  sort  of  thing.  Do  you 
hear!" 

There  was  a  roaring  of  many  waters  in  her  ears,  but 
the  words  and  tone  stabbed  pitilessly  to  her  conscious- 
ness and  she  fought  desperately  for  strength  and  speech. 

It  was  all  right!  He  would  live,  then.  He  was  not 
dead,  and  it  was  this  man,  with  his  cold  eyes  and  speech, 
who  stood  in  impatient  patience  before  her,  who  was 
giving  James  Ferriss  back  to  his  daughter  and  his  world. 

She  stretched  out  groping  hands  toward  him,  then 
drew  them  back.  The  anguish  of  long  waiting  had  filmed 
her  eyes  and  painted  black  circles  around  them,  but  in 
them  was  the  look  that  comes  in  a  dog's  eyes  when  it 
gives  fealty,  and  they  met  the  cold  regard  with  hum- 
bleness. 

The  sound  of  the  operating  table  being  wheeled  down 
the  hall  to  the  patient's  room  reached  them,  and  June 
started  forward,  but  paused  at  the  surgeon's  side  and 
bending  down,  touched  her  lips  to  his  sleeve. 

Then  he  heard  the  swish  of  her  garments  in  the  hall, 
followed  by  the  soft  closing  of  a  door. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR 

SAY,  'Aunt  Kate',"  said  Dr.  Stanley. 
"A'  Cake,"  said  Peter  obediently. 

"It  isn't  cake!  It's  'Kate',"  the  doctor  corrected  in- 
dignantly. 

"Cake,"  agreed  Peter,  with  a  joyous  gurgle. 

"Now,  see  here,  Peter  Pan,  I  absolutely  refuse  to  be 
known  as  'Cake'  any  longer!  In  your  bright  lexicon  of 
youth  you  manage  to  get  around  the  letter  't'  quite  glibly 
when  it  suits  you,  and  there  is  no  use  pretending  inability. 
Do  you  get  me?" 

Peter  Pan  rolled  happily  over  on  the  fur  rug  and 
came  to  a  stop  wrong  end  up.  Dr.  Stanley  spanked 
the  pink  chambray  seat  invitingly  presented,  and  Peter 
crowed  ecstatically. 

"Your  child  doesn't  even  know  chastisement  when  he 
gets  it,"  commented  the  doctor  with  disgust.  "If  he 
didn't  have  Carl  Goethe  and  me  to  Montessori  him  occa- 
sionally, I  shudder  to  think  what  the  result  would  be." 

"But  Montessori  doesn't  chastise,  does  she?"  mur- 
mured June,  regarding  her  board  with  one  eye  closed. 
"Up-end  him  again,  Katrinka,  till  I  get  that  left  leg." 

The  doctor  gathered  a  handful  of  pink  chambray  seat 
and  elevated  it  several  inches.  The  fat,  bare  knees 
promptly  drew  under,  turtle-fashion,  and  June's  brush 
worked  busily. 

Holding  the  restless  little  body  firmly,  the  doctor  scru- 
tinised Mr.  Ferriss,  who  was  in  a  big  chair  by  the  case- 
ment window. 

"Well,  get  it  over,"  she  told  him  resignedly.  "I  haven't 

254 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  255 

been  here  since  yesterday  morning,  so  get  the  latest  out 
of  your  system.  The  condition  of  mind — the  maudlin 
condition  of  mind — of  the  relatives  and  friends  of  this 
quite  ordinary  infant,  is  a  pitiable  spectacle.  But  never 
mind  me!  We  are  born  to  trouble  as  the  sparks  fly 
upward.  What  did  he  do  and  say?" 

She  reversed  ends  of  the  infant  in  question,  and  as 
it  landed  on  its  sandalled  feet,  it  whooped  gleefully  and 
launched  head  on  into  her  lap.  She  was  sitting  on  the 
fur  rug,  and  at  the  sudden  onslaught  she  moaned  pathet- 
ically, but  consented  to  being  half  strangled,  while  her 
immaculately  arranged  hair  was  demolished  and  a  wet, 
pink  mouth  planted  fervent  kisses  in  her  left  eye. 

Mr.  Ferriss  smiled  appreciatively  and  winked  at  his 
daughter. 

"If  he's  too  obstreperous,  Kate,  turn  him  over  to 
Nora,"  he  suggested  innocently,  and  was  rewarded  by 
a  wrathful  glare  from  the  one  eye  still  serviceable. 

"If  you  will  please  tell  me  what  this  child  has  been 
doing  since  I  saw  him  last,  I  will  be  grateful,  James 
Ferriss,"  she  replied  crushingly,  but  a  little  indistinctly, 
owing  to  a  head  of  yellow  curls  now  burrowing  against 
her  mouth. 

"Well,  you  know  Mocky  came  out  last  night  after  the 
performance,  to  have  a  few  hours'  visit  to-day.  Of 
course  it  was  the  sma'  hours  when  she  got  here,  and  she 
dropped  her  wraps,  gloves,  and  a  two-pound  box  of 
candied  fruit  on  the  couch  in  this  room,  then  slept  in  the 
bedroom  with  June.  This  morning  while  Nora  was 
getting  breakfast,  Peter  was  paddling  around  in  his 
pyjamas,  and  for  a  wonder  seemed  fairly  quiet.  But 
when  the  girls  and  I  got  up,  Nora  mysteriously  signalled 
us  to  look  in  here.  We  did.  Peter  was  quiet,  as  I 
said " 


256  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"He  was  also  busy,"  added  Peter's  mother. 

"He  was  very  busy,"  agreed  Mr.  Ferriss  gravely.  "He 
was  leaning  on  his  stomach  against  the  couch,  and  he 
had  the  lid  off  the  box  of  confections.  He  had  about 
finished  sampling  the  entire  two  pounds,  which  he  did 
by  the  satisfactory  method  of  putting  a  piece  in  his 
mouth  and  then  taking  it  out  again.  The  fruit  was  of 
different  colours  and  the  melted  sugar  and — er — spit,  had 
run  the  colourings  into  an  interesting  Cubist  effect,  as 
they  all  stuck  loyally  together." 

"Peter  had  the  box  all  to  himself,"  his  mother  ex- 
plained. "He  offered  it  to  each  of  us  in  turn,  but  there 
were  'no  takers,'  as  the  boys  express  it." 

Dr.  Stanley  rolled  the  small  culprit  over  in  her  lap, 
then  bent  and  kissed  the  nape  of  his  warm,  satiny  neck. 

"Foxy  Pete!"  she  commented  admiringly.  "You  are 
cut  out  to  be  a  politician  of  a  high  order,  that  is  evi- 
dent. You  know  how  to  be  generous  with  sugar  plums, 
but  taking  care  to  first  lick  the  sugar!  Bright  boy, 
Peter  Pan!" 

She  burrowed  into  the  sweet  warmth  of  the  baby's 
neck,  then  sat  up  and  turned  to  June. 

"How  goes  the  work  ?"  she  asked. 

"The  new  series  is  not  hard,"  June  replied.  "The 
infant  is  a  splendid  model  for  Dan  Cupid  and  it  is  a 
good  field  that  won't  be  exhausted  in  a  hurry,  so  I  do 
not  have  to  worry  over  ideas.  'They  come  without  coax- 
ing, praise  be !  And,  Kate ! — Dr.  Orth  brought  a  lot  of 
German  material  back  with  him,  which  he  wants  trans- 
lated and  put  in  form  for  the  printers.  I  am  to  do  it 
for  him.  Isn't  that  an  assignment  worth  having?" 

"Going  to  make  night  work  of  it?"  the  doctor  en- 
quired without  enthusiasm. 

"No,  I'm  not — that  is,  only  part  of  evenings  when  I 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  257 

am  in  the  mood,  you  mentholated  shower-bath,  you!" 
laughed  June.  "It  will  be  different  from  my  own  work, 
and  I  always  like  the  languages,  so  I  will  enjoy  the 
translating.  He  is  making  annotations  from  his  own 
experiences,  and  they  are  so  remarkable,  and  yet  so 
lucid,  it  is  all  wonderfully  interesting." 

"Well,  yes,  I  can  see  that  it  might  be,"  conceded  the 
doctor.  "But  you  watch  her,  Dad  Ferriss!  Union  hours, 
you  know.  If  you  can't  manage  her,  send  for  me,  or 
for  Carl.  And  when  Dr.  Orth  gets  through  nailing  little 
tobacco  tags  on  your  dome  of  thought,  you  and  I  will 
take  that  young  woman  in  hand  and  tell  her  things." 

Mr.  Ferriss  laughed  and  touched  the  bandage  around 
his  head  carefully. 

"He  is  a  marvellous  plumber,  our  Dr.  Orth,"  he  said, 
smiling,  but  in  his  voice  a  vibrant  note  that  paid  tribute 
to  a  great  man.  "And  he  promises  that  in  a  few  months 
I  may  get  back  into  harness.  June  won't  tell  me  any- 
thing about  business  affairs,  and  he  backs  her  up,  so  I 
am  forced  to  be  a  lotus-eater.  But  all  that  is  going  to 
be  changed  one  of  these  days!  What  a  splendid  type 
Orth  is,  Kate !  Goethe  has  simply  canonised  him,  and  I 
am  beginning  to  understand  why." 

"He  is  the  salt  of  the  earth,"  Dr.  Stanley  said  with 
conviction.  "He  is  a  'man's  man'  and  men  either  rank 
him  close  to  the  pope,  or  are  afraid  of  him.  And  I 
question  if  His  Eminence  has  the  devotion  for  himself 
individually  that  John  Orth  attracts!  It  is  not  an  aura 
of  Papal  power.  It  is  just  the  man." 

June,  bending  over  her  drawing-board,  listened  to  the 
eulogies  of  the  man  whom  she  owed  so  much.  The  deli- 
cate and  extremely  dangerous  operation  had  readjusted 
the  little  dark  shutter,  and  James  Ferris  had  regained 
fully  the  cool  and  analytic  judgment  that  had  steered 


258  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

him  through  the  shifting  sands  and  treacherous  quag- 
mires of  the  law  so  successfully. 

Splendidly  strong,  they  called  Dr.  Orth,  this  silent 
man  of  science,  who  belonged  to  his  world  yet  held 
himself  so  aloof  from  it.  Splendidly  strong,  always. 
But  was  he  as  splendidly  right — always? 

To  the  strength,  that  held  its  perfect  poise  through 
duel  after  duel  with  Death,  June  paid  tribute  in  immeas- 
urable gratitude.  But  the  very  gratitude  that  drew  her 
thought  so  persistently  to  the  man  who  inspired  it, 
probed  beyond  the  scientific  attributes  to  the  hidden  soul 
of  the  man  himself. 

Was  he  merely  an  intricate  and  splendid  machine, 
gifted  with  an  almost  superhuman  power,  as  well  as 
with  a  form  of  magnetic  attraction  for  others  that  he 
neither  heeded  nor  valued?  Did  the  mask  of  unsmiling 
indifference  not  mask,  after  all,  but  really  mirror  a  real 
indifference  to  everything  but  the  recurrent  gambling, 
with  Life  and  Death  as  the  stakes? 

Men  and  women  there  were,  she  knew,  of  this  peculiar 
type — "faultily  faultless,  icily  null" — caring  nothing  for 
their  kind,  interested  in  abstractions  only,  and  critically 
fastidious  as  to  the  niceties  of  life,  while  temperamentally 
utterly  incapable  of  understanding  the  volcanic  passions 
that  sometimes  broke  bonds  and  made  war  with  the 
pretty  formal  gardens  and  plaster  conventions  that 
adorned  Life's  surface. 

Between  her  and  the  drawing-board  the  greyly  in- 
scrutable face  floated.  Did  it  mask — or  mirror? 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIVE 

"TAR.  ORTH  was  watching  his  patient  closely,  not 
*~*  certain  if  a  minor  should  follow  the  major  opera- 
tion. Meantime  the  two  men  became  friends,  and  while 
Mr.  Ferriss,  under  orders,  kept  much  in  the  quiet  and 
privacy  of  his  own  pleasant  room,  with  its  wide  South 
windows,  his  physician  relieved  the  tedium  and  found 
agreeable  relaxation  for  himself  by  an  informal  "smoker" 
every  day  or  so,  at  which  matters  of  the  outside  and 
active  world  were  discussed. 

June,  at  her  translations  where  the  shaded  light  fell 
on  her  desk,  listened  to  the  low,  full  tones  of  the  sur- 
geon's voice,  keenly  sensitive  to  its  rare  charm.  Its 
modulations  seemed  to  change  almost  imperceptibly  and 
very  slightly,  yet  slight  as  was  the  change,  its  disap- 
proval or  displeasure  cut  like  whips.  There  was  no 
appeal  to  its  glacial  finality!  She  had  seen  those  who 
met  its  pitiless  decree  shrink  to  hopeless  dumbness,  the 
eager  plea  or  protest  on  their  lips  shrivelled  like  leaves 
blighted  by  the  black  frost. 

She  had  studied  his  face  curiously  as  he  observed  eyes 
suddenly  averted  to  conceal  stinging  tears,  heads  turned 
away  because  of  the  shamed  red  that  rose  under  the  flick 
of  his  deliberately  placed  lash.  And  in  his  face  she  saw 
no  faintest  sign  of  regret  nor  even  concern. 

Those  who  loved  him  did  so  wholly  and  blindly.  When 
they  saw — if  they  did  not  experience,  or  experienced 
rarely — the  fine  cruelty  so  quietly  expressed,  they  has- 
tened to  explain  it  away,  to  blot  it  out  of  their  own 
consciousness  with  the  uncomfortable  sensation  of  hav- 

259 


260  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

ing  been  false  to  an  ideal.  They  felt  much  as  devotees 
who  burn  candles  to  the  patron  saint  they  worship,  when 
the  petition  fails  of  a  reply  after  all. 

The  good  saint  was  probably  intent  on  other  business, 
thinking  of  other  things,  while  the  little  candles  sput- 
tered and  burned  out!  One  must  not  criticise  a  saint! 

And  infallible  as  the  saint  to  many,  was  the  man  in 
the  next  room  whom  June  listened  to  curiously  one 
evening,  waiting  till  the  "smoker"  was  over  and  he 
would  pause  to  glance  over  and  discuss  her  translating 
before  going  home.  She  could  see,  and  in  a  degree 
understand,  that  blind  devotion.  It  was  complex  in  its 
sum  total  of  causes,  yet  they  all  contributed  to  its  dogged 
loyalty. 

There  was  hero-worship,  such  as  a  grimly  silent  Na- 
poleon would  inspire  in  his  awed  followers,  who  would 
follow  quite  obediently  over  a  precipice,  did  he  direct. 
There  was  the  reliance  and  sense  of  safety  in  the  quiet 
tyranny  that  bade  them  go,  or  stay,  because  for  the  one 
master  is  born  the  thousand  who  are  happier  mastered. 
There  was  the  bewildered  but  content  yielding  to  the 
magic  of  a  voice  unquestionably  beautiful,  and  the 
equally  bewildered  submission  to  that  indefinable  some- 
thing that  fascinated,  as  the  Piper  of  Hamelin  fascinated 
and  drew  after  him  the  children,  uncomprehending  but 
glad. 

Infallible  to  many — but  a  study  to  the  woman  who 
watched  him  curiously  as  he  came  into  the  living-room 
and  drew  a  chair  up  beside  the  desk.  With  his  cus- 
tomary taciturnity  he  drew  the  loose  sheets  toward  him 
and  studied  them  closely.  With  corresponding  taciturnity 
she  made  no  comment,  but  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
studied  the  reader. 

The  soft  light  streamed  over  a  head  well  shaped,  and 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  261 

features  cut  on  clear  but  decided  and  almost  straight 
lines.  The  brows  were  level  and  stern ;  the  nose  straight ; 
the  mouth  finely  chiselled,  but  with  the  upper  lip  set 
firmly  on  the  lower,  compressing  it  into  a  line  of  uncom- 
promising inflexibility. 

When  John  Orth  smiled,  the  slight  out-thrust  of  the 
lower  lip  and  the  knife-stroke  lines  that  ploughed  deep 
from  nostril  to  mouth,  changed  in  an  unexpected  and 
amazingly  transforming  manner.  It  was  as  though  a 
spirit  that  had  strayed,  had  returned  to  warm  and  ani- 
mate its  forsaken  habitation.  Of  this  phenomenon,  a  pa- 
tient had  once  said  wistfully:  "If  he  only  knew  how  he 
looked  when  he  smiled,  don't  you  think  he  would  smile 
oftener?" 

"I  wonder  if  he  would!"  June  murmured. 

She  watched  the  eyes  deliberately  travel  up  till  they 
reached  her  own — watched  with  curiosity  the  still  eyelids 
and  the  peculiarly  deep  but  baffling  gaze  that  lasted 
while  she  could  have  counted  many  seconds. 

"Would  what?" 

The  words  were  curt,  the  hard  quality  that  the  rich 
voice  possessed  was  very  evident,  and  June's  eyebrows 
lifted. 

"Smile,"  she  explained  pleasantly.  "A  patient  said 
you  might  now  and  then,  if  you  knew  how  much  better 
you — how  reviving  it  was  to  people." 

"How  much  better  I  would  look,  you  meant  to  say?" 
he  enquired. 

June's  shoulders  now  lifted  in  a  little  protesting  shrug. 

"If  you  insist !" 

No  shadow  of  expression  indicated  either  offence  or 
amusement,  and  she  mentally  raised  hands  of  appeal  to 
her  gods. 


262  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"Why?"  She  just  breathed  the  word,  watching  him 
closely,  and  he  answered,  as  curtly  as  before: 

"Why  should  I?" 

June's  pencil  absently  traced  a  butterfly  on  the  draw- 
ing-board, then  she  tapped  it  thoughtfully. 

"Why?  Are  not  butterflies  as  neccessary,  after  all, 
as  bees  ?  Does  not  the  world  need  the  comfort  of  beauty, 
as  well  as  the  hive  and  its  store?" 

"Does  it?  I  seem  to  get  along  without  butterflies. 
There  is  not  much  room  for  beauty  in  a  day  of  mine. 
I  am  rather  busy  generally,  and  do  not  see  much  to 
smile  at,"  he  said. 

"That  is  true,  of  course."  She  was  still  looking  at 
the  butterfly,  touching  its  wings  with  delicate  strokes. 
"You  are  a  wonderful  surgeon  of  bodies,  but,  you  see, 
your  power  does  not  stop  there.  You  reach  the  heart, 
and  you  are  able  to  heal — or  hurt." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  she  looked  at  him. 

"I  question  if  you  care  very  much,"  she  said  slowly. 
"But  you  influence  people  a  good  deal  and  the  body 
is  not  all,  any  more  than  the  hive.  The  butterfly  was 
Psyche,  you  remember — the  soul.  And  if  you  can  make 
a  soul  that  Is  sad  lift  its  wings,  does  not  that  mean  as 
much  as  restoring  a  limb?" 

"That  is  not  my  profession,"  he  said  coldly. 

"It  is  your  privilege,"  she  corrected  steadily. 

Their  looks  crossed — challenged.  Hers  neither  fal- 
tered nor  sank,  and  it  met  his  with  a  serene  scrutiny 
that  was  quite  patient  and  mildly  entertained. 

"I  am  not  a  philanthropist,  Miss  Ferris.  I  leave  that 
to  people  fitted  to  it,  and  with  more  time  than  I  have." 

"Is  humanity  a  vocation?"  She  questioned  with  entire 
courtesy,  but  she  still  watched  him  intently.  "I  am  not 
active  in  good  works  myself,  but  I  notice  the  little  things 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  263 

that  make  up  one's  day — the  fall  of  a  pebble  in  a  pool 
and  its  ever- widening  circle  of  influence  on  others.  The 
philanthropy  you  repudiate  is  the  little  pebble,  the  word 
spoken  or  withheld,  the  tone  that  helps,  or  harms.  Each 
of  us  centres  his  own  sphere.  With  some,  the  sphere  is 
small  and  not  important.  With  you,  it  is  very  large. 
It  is  so  large  that  I  am  wondering  if,  after  all,  your 
surgery  is  the  greater  part  of  you !" 

"It  is  sufficient." 

She  shook  her  head  thoughtfully. 

"No — I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  1" 

Her  gaze  went  back  to  the  pencil  and  absently  followed 
its  mechanical  touches  on  the  delicate  wings. 

"Our  scale  of  values  is  open  to  question,  isn't  it?  We 
want  to  bind  your  brow  with  bay  leaves  when  you  per- 
form one  of  your  wonderful  operations  on  a  human 
body.  We  almost  deify  you  because  you  set  death  back 
a  few  days  or  years.  We  make  life  the  one  desired  thing, 
the  saviour  of  a  life  a  hero.  There  is  no  question  of 
whether  the  life  is  a  useful,  or  even  a  happy,  one.  It 
is  just — life!" 

With  light,  sure  strokes  she  sketched  in  the  fine 
antennae  and  was  silent  a  moment,  then  she  sighed  a 
little  impatiently. 

"You  set  death  back  a  few  years,  in  many  cases, 
just  to  prolong  the  grey  existence  of  a  grey  toiler,  who 
neither  gives  much  to  the  world,  nor  gets  much  out  of 
it.  And  we  give  you  our  plaudits.  But  we .  do  not 
notice,  and  you  do  not  heed,  the  lives  your  life  touches 
each  day,  just  in  passing.  They  are  so  many — nurses, 

patients,  friends,  business  people,  strangers .  They 

come  within  your  orbit  and  you  give  a  direction,  make  a 
request,  solve  a  perplexity,  lighten  an  anxiety.  Dull  eyes 
brighten,  anxious  faces  clear,  bewildered  souls  become 


264  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

animated  with  new  ambition.  I  have  watched  it.  It  is 
wizardry,  this  peculiar  ability  of  yours  to  infuse  new 
life — not  just  the  surgical  trick  of  prolonged  physical 
action — but  life,  as  life  is  surely  meant  to  be,  with 
every  faculty  alert  and  eager  and  brave  to  do  things  and 
endure  things  with  fortitude." 

The  pencil  dropped  from  her  fingers  and  she  turned 
and  faced  him. 

"That,  to  me,  means  so  much — that  psychological 
talent  that  you  value  so  little  and  use  so  little.  The  souls 
that  you  touch  unconsciously — you  help  them,  and  that 
vibration  of  new  hope,  new  courage,  of  gladness — it 
pulses  from  that  soul  to  the  next  that  it  meets,  and 
from  that  to  another,  on  and  on  through  trackless  ether 
and  with  incalculable  influence.  Life  is  easier,  fuller, 
brighter,  suddenly,  just  because  you  have  made  it  so. 
While  on  the  other  hand " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  and  the  man  listening,  after  a 
long  moment's  wait,  prompted  with  dry  politeness :  "And 
on  the  other  hand  ?" 

"You  ask?"  She  spoke  with  deliberation,  and  he  re- 
peated, with  cold  gravity: 

"I  ask." 

She  lifted  her  head  a  little,  then  turned,  with  one  arm 
on  the  back  of  her  chair,  the  other  on  the  desk,  the  hand 
unconsciously  clenched. 

"Then — on  the  other  hand  is  your  indifference  to 
this,  the  more  important  of  the  two  talents.  When  it 
is  used  and  helps,  it  must  be  unconsciously,  because  so 
often  you  hurt — wantonly." 

Attentive  but  unmoved,  he  considered  what  she  had 
said  in  silence,  then  replied: 

"I  do  not  garnish  what  I  have  to  say  with  bromidial 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  265 

platitudes.     They  are  not  as  important  as  you  would 
make  them." 

June's  eyes  narrowed  as  they  searched  the  face  in 
the  half-shadow,  but  its  grey  quiet  baffled. 

"It  is  rather  a  far  cry  from  bromidial  platitudes  to\ 
your  naked  truths.  And  their  effect  is  important.  What  1 
is  mere  living  worth?  Is  it  not  just  a  burden,  unless 
there  is  some  incentive,  some  hope,  some  happiness  to 
make  it  bearable?  If  you  give  one  human  being  a  new 
chance  to  live,  that  is  well.  But  with  that  one  you  can 
give  ten  the  chance  to  live  happier,  and  that  is  better. 
Say  that  you  just  brighten  the  day — that  gives  new 
courage,  a  new  grip,  to  battle  with  the  days  to  come. 
No  one  knows  but  the  one  you  help.  There  is  no  glory 
in  it.  But  it  is  worth  while!" 

He  gathered  the  loose  sheets  of  copy  into  a  neat  pile, 
with  the  careful  precision  that  marked  all  that  he  did, 
and  rose  to  his  feet.  With  his  soft  hat  held  in  one 
hand  with  the  manuscript,  he  stood  with  the  other  arm 
stretched  out,  braced  against  the  frame  of  the  door  and 
looked  down  at  her. 

Did  he  understand,  or  care?  Was  it  a  waste  of  time 
to  yield  to  the  impulse,  half  eagerness,  half  irritation, 
that  this  man  always  roused  in  her  to  protest  against  the 
Sphinx-calm  that  thrust  back  from  him  the  lives  that 
reached  to  him  so  instinctively,  and  so  often  to  their 
own  hurt ! 

She  was  conscious  of  a  mental  bracing  to  meet  and 
withstand  that  chill,  impalpable  barrier  that  threw  its 
shadow  across  the  resentment  that  burned  in  her  heart. 
With  sensibilities  exquisitely  acute,  she  felt  the  pained 
shrinking  of  those  whom  his  coldness  hurt,  and  her  sense 
of  justice  rose  in  quick  and  hot  defence.  That  para- 
doxical quality  so  marked  in  him,  that  allured  as  a 


266  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

friendly  hand  held  out  to  a  timid  animal,  and  then  re- 
buffed, stung  her  into  ever  new  anger  at  its  unfairness. 

Try  as  she  would  not  to  care,  she  did  care.  And  be- 
cause her  mental  poise  was,  in  general,  not  easily  dis- 
turbed, the  fact  that  this  man  did  disturb  it  annoyed  her 
very'  much.  Her  reason  told  her  that  if  he  declined  to 
use  his  talent  for  the  good  it  could  do,  that  was  dis- 
tinctly his  affair.  Why  interfere  ? 

But  her  memory  rolled  up  a  brief  for  those  whom  his 
curtness  had  checked  and  bewildered,  and  the  safe  non- 
interference policy  of  diplomacy  shrivelled  in  the  fire 
of  her  indignation. 

The  talent  wasted  in  a  world  that  cried  for  its  com- 
fort and  helpfulness  so  woefully,  she  could  not  see  with 
the  shrug  of  indifference  of  the  wise.  June  Ferriss  was 
not  wise,  perhaps.  But  the  wise  do  not  stumble  on 
through  black  and  bitter  wastes  toward  distant  beacon 
fires,  that  the  unwise  occasionally  actually  reach.  So 
perhaps  it  is  as  well  for  the  rest  of  us,  cannily  content 
with  the  near  and  safe  make-shift,  that  we  have  those 
who  are  a  little  mad,  as  Dr.  Stanley  had  said,  and  who 
dare, — to  blaze  a  way  for  us. 

So  she  leaned  forward,  as  he  stood  looking  down  at 
her,  the  long  silence  broken  only  by  the  slow  tick  of  the 
tall  clock  she  had  listened  to  as  a  baby. 

"It  is — worth  while!"  she  repeated  at  last  insistently. 
He  still  did  not  answer  for  a  little,  then  he  said  quietly : 

"Perhaps " 

His  hand  dropped  to  the  handle  of  the  door,  and,  turn- 
ing it,  he  drew  the  door  open  and  passed  out  into  the 
night 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX 

A  LITTLE  encampment  nestled,  toy-fashion,  on  the 
•*•  *•  silence-steeped  banks  of  the  river  Nile.  The  tents 
gleamed  as  whitely  as  a  lady's  handkerchief  in  the  won- 
derful moonlight  that  spread  in  an  unearthly  radiance 
over  the  placid  breast  of  the  great  river,  the  slender 
palms  delicately  piercing  the  sky-line,  the  arid  earth 
lying  lifelessly  under  the  pallid  light. 

Before  the  group  of  tents  a  small  camp-fire  burned 
redly,  and  a  man  sitting  in  a  folding  canvas  chair  was 
smoking  and  staring  into  the  flames  that  swayed  calmly 
in  the  still  air. 

The  man  was  dressed  in  white  duck  and  a  white 
helmet  lay  on  a  bench  near  him.  His  face  was  tanned 
to  almost  Hindu  blackness  by  the  hot  sun  and  his  teeth 
flashed  with  odd  distinctness  when  he  spoke,  at  intervals, 
to  some  white-draped  native  servants  flitting  about  be- 
hind him. 

A  small,  practically  designed  yacht  was  anchored  close 
by,  its  unadorned  utility  softened  a  little  by  the  magic 
of  the  moonlight  which  was  flooding  the  scene  with  a 
supernal  splendour.  Farther  down  the  river,  native 
craft  drifted  languorously,  and  occasionally  a  long,  weird 
cry  of  a  boatman  stole  across  the  white  stillness  and  died 
plaintively  away  in  the  distance,  that  presently  sent  back, 
very  faintly,  the  answering,  echo-like  cry  of  a  brother 
boatman. 

The  man  smoking  by  the  fire  at  last  turned  and  asked 
a  question  in  the  native  tongue  of  the  servants,  who  had 
grouped  together  just  beyond  the  tents,  talking  excit- 
edly. 

267 


268  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"Travellers  approach,  master,"  they  answered  in  the 
vernacular.  "Listen!" 

A  river  cry  was  faltering  to  stillness  and  the  man 
rose  to  his  feet  and  waited.  Soon  he  was  able  to  discern 
a  fine,  thin  sound,  plaintively  sweet  and  irregular — the 
sound  of  little  bells,  stealing  weakly  across  great  wastes. 

"A  caravan!" 

The  exclamation  was  muttered  thickly  and  the  sudden 
eagerness  that  flamed  in  his  eyes  accentuated  the  hollow 
shadows  that  heart  and  soul  hunger  had  painted  around 
them.  It  was  the  loneliness  of  the  Caucasian  among 
an  alien  people — of  a  master-mind  seeking  and  planning, 
painting  dreams  through  silent,  strange  days  and  nights, 
that  were  to  turn  the  arid  sands  and  wastes  into  fair 
garden  places  for  a  generation  yet  to  come. 

The  generation  would  not  know  of  him,  nor  care, 
but  the  creative  "urge"  in  the  man  drove  him  on,  away 
from  his  kind,  into  unspeakable  loneliness,  to  do  battle 
with  heat  and  dust  and  thirst  and  the  vague  dangers  that 
lurked  always  in  the  shadows  that  dogged  his  wan- 
derings. 

Across  the  dreary  monotony  of  it,  the  sound  he  was 
now  listening  to  sometimes  came,  its  faint,  indefinite 
notes  a  veritable  hymning  of  hope.  For  the  camel 
bells  meant  those  from  the  active,  noisy  world  he  had 
renounced  for  his  quest — those  with  news,  at  least,  and 
possibly  those  of  his  own  colour  and  race. 

So  he  strained  his  hearing,  with  a  fierce  impatience 
sending  the  blood  pounding  thickly  through  his  temples, 
while  the  tintinnabulation  of  the  little  bells  swelled  into 
jubilant  distinctness,  and,  at  last,  six  high,  ungainly 
shapes  swept  up  into  sight  and  moved  toward  him  across 
the  sand-billows  with  incredible  swiftness. 

Excited  questions  from  his  servants  greeted  the  camel- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  269 

riders,  and  they  ran  forward  in  welcome  as  the  animals, 
uttering  strange,  harsh  cries,  came  to  a  halt  and  went 
down  clumsily  on  their  knees. 

It  was  a  caravan  of  native  merchants,  the  man  watch- 
ing eagerly  saw,  but  a  sudden  shout  burst  from  his  lips 
and  he  leaped  forward  as  a  helmeted  figure  climbed 
stiffly  down  from  the  saddle-pad  and  stood  rubbing  his 
limbs  and  swearing  fervently. 

"Carson — by  all  the  gods!" 

The  helmeted  gentleman  limped  forward  and  grasped 
the  outstretched  hands  in  an  iron  grip. 

"I'm  discovered,"  he  admitted.  "That's  me.  Say, 
Mendoza,  how  many  thousand  more  miles  does  this 
bailiwick  of  yours  extend  to?  Got  anything  to  drink? 
Never  mind  water — hate  to  waste  it.  Other  things  will 
do.  Where's  the  bar?" 

Mendoza  was  wringing  his  hands  and  swallowing  hard, 
while  Carson  submitted  to  the  torture  and  grinned  fool- 
ishly. 

"Why,  you  dissipated  old  reprobate!"  Mendoza  was 
exclaiming  joyously.  "You  old  Wall  Street  highbinder, 
you !  Have  you  turned  missionary  or  jumped  your  bail? 
What  did  it,  old  man?" 

"Just  so,"  Carson  replied  calmly.  "That  was  it.  Mis- 
sionary. Want  to  let  some  of  these  coloured  gent  friends 
of  yours  over  here  in  on  the  ground  floor  on  some  good 
things.  Just  like  finding  the  money.  See?  Gilt-edge 
security.  Yep.  But  I  don't  like  your  taxi-service.  Look 
nice  in  those  ten-thousand-dollar  oils  we  buy  in  London, 
but  they  don't  do  a  thing  to  your  joints.  I'm  no  acro- 
bat! Where's  that  bar?" 

The  bar  and  a  camp-fire  dinner  soon  reconciled  Mr. 
Carson  to  a  more  appreciative  view  of  Egypt  and  the 


270  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

upper  Nile,  and  he  filled  his  pipe  and  leaned  back  in  his 
canvas  chair  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"Nothing  small  about  that  Luna  party  you  have  out 
here,"  he  remarked,  gazing  at  the  great  silver  sphere 
hung  in  a  limpid,  fathomless  vault  of  cloudless  ether. 
"Some  moon,  that.  We  ought  to  have  it  at  Coney.  It 
would  double  the  Iron  Steamboat  crowds,  believe  me! 
What  you  going  to  raise  out  here,  Gray?  Corn?  Al- 
falfa? No  Evergreen  Glades  about  this  Garden  of 
Allah,  is  there!  You  certainly  have  the  nerve  of  the 
devil  to  tackle  this  benighted  sand-bar  and  stake  off 
pasture  lots.  All  I  can  see  that  raises  well  around  here 
are  lizards  and  brunette  gentlemen  in  bath-robes." 

Mendoza  laughed  as  he  pressed  the  tobacco  down  in 
the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

"Never  mind,  Charlie,  I'll  give  you  first  option  when 
the  orange  groves  and  berry  patches  get  started." 

Carson  cast  a  quizzical  eye  at  the  surrounding  scenery, 
then  stared  at  the  group  of  desert  merchants  sitting  and 
lying  on  sand-carpets  while  they  talked  in  low  voices 
and  smoked  the  long-stemlmed  pipes  of  the  desert. 

"Queer  old  ginks!  Lord,  I'd  fall  over  my  petticoats 
and  break  all  the  commandments  if  I  had  to  wear  all 
those  sheets  around  me.  Do  they  ever  get  a  shampoo 
or  a  bath?  Looks  like  one  of  Belasco's  stage  sets,  doesn't 
it?  And,  say !  this  bally  noiselessness  gets  on  my  nerves ! 
Doesn't  anything  ever  make  a  sound  out  here?  Where're 
the  frogs  or  trolley  cars  or  Victrolas  or  something?  I'll 
take  some  more  of  the  bar,  old  man.  This  is  all  so  damn 
spooky,  I  need  a  tonic!" 

A  native  placed  the  "bar"  on  a  stand  comfortingly 
close  to  the  visitor's  elbow,  and  he  braced  his  suffering 
nerves  generously,  then  grinned  affectionately  at  his  host, 
who  grinned  affectionately  back. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  271 

"It  would  be  me  for  the  dippy-ma  is  on  if  I  had  a 
month  of  this.  How  on  earth  do  you  stand  it,  Men- 
doza?  This  committing  suicide  for  the  sake  of  future 
generations  listens  like  a  Victoria  cross,  of  course,  but 
Sainted  Susie! — the  heroic  makes  ycu  miss  all  the  good 
Broadway  shows  and  my  digestion  won't  stand  this 
Boy  Scout  cooking  as  a  steady  diet.  Don't  you  long  for 
home  and  Uncle  Sammy  sometimes?" 

Mendoza's  teeth  closed  hard  on  the  amber  between 
them  and  he  leaned  over  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
looking  into  the  fire  from  narrowed  eyelids. 

"Yes,  it  is  not  lively,"  he  replied  quietly.  "But  that 
is  part  of  the  game.  I  suppose  it  is  just  that,  and  the 
obstacles  that  I  have  to  fight,  that  keep  me  fighting.  If 
we  can't  get  what  we  want  in  life,  the  next  best  thing  is 
to  fight  for  something  that  we  don't  want,  perhaps,  very 
much,  but  that  keeps  us  busy." 

"Er — yes — maybe "  Carson  looked  dubiously 

around  him.  Land  and  sky,  sleeping  Nile  and  sleeping 
natives,  seemed  to  have  slept  for  centuries.  There  was 
something  brooding,  sinister,  in  the  vast,  passionless  calm 
that  looked  with  august  toleration  down  on  the  little 
lives  and  little  interests  of  Man. 

"But  I  don't  know,  after  all,  that  I  should  want 
Egypt  and  irrigated  vegetables  for  its  descendants  as 
an  antidote.  I  don't  get  all  I  want — no  one  does — but 
I  can  go  down  town  and  forget  it.  It  takes  too  long  to 
get  down  town  here  to  suit  me.  And  I  would  rather 
let  Egypt  go  on  getting  her  vegetables  canned  from  New 
Jersey.  Gimme  some  poker  chips  and  a  chance  to  sit 
in  a  quiet  little  game  with  the  boys,  and  I'll  chuck  the 
Victoria  medal  stunts.  Better  cut  it,  and  come  back  with 
me.  What  is  it  that  Omar  chap  says?  'The  bird  of  Time 
has  but  a  little  way  to  flutter — and  the  bird  is  on  the 


272  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

Wing!'  Let  the  dagoes  go  on  living  on  camel  steaks 
and  fried  cacti,  and  come  back  to  Forty-second  Street. 
When  you're  dead,  you're  very,  very  dead,  remember. 
What's  the  use!" 

His  host  listened  attentively  while  the  voluble  visitor 
detailed  the  gossip  over-seas.  Married,  moved,  dead 
or  just  quietly  sunk  out  of  sight  and  forgotten  by  most 
— the  chatty  narrative  glanced  from  name  to  name,  from 
anecdote  to  anecdote,  while  Mondoza  put  in  a  question 
or  comment  here  and  there. 

The  great  crystal  globe  that  seemed  so  close  to  them, 
moved  majestically  toward  the  Western  horizon,  but 
still  the  old  friends  sat  and  talked,  pausing  now  and  then 
to  replenish  the  fire  or  pipe.  And  at  last  Carson  spoke 
of  the  preceding  summer. 

"Went  to  Ferncliff  nights  when  the  City  got  hot — • 
put  up  at  the  Inn.  Lot  of  the  old  crowd  there.  Toots 
and  Bob  go  there  a  good  deal  now  and  so  do  the  Vances. 
Toots  is  quite  dippy  over  June  Ferriss'  boy — they  have 
no  children,  you  know,  and  are  crazy  for  them,  of 
course!  So  Toots  takes  the  boy  motoring  with  her 
and " 

The  pleasant,  gossipy  voice  fell  into  sudden  horrified 
silence.  He  had  forgotten!  Mendoza  had  dropped  his 
chin  on  his  hands  and  the  light  in  the  pipe  between  his 
teeth  went  out.  His  eyes  were  staring  fixedly  at  the 
fire,  and  he  seemed  quietly  attentive.  But  the  muscles 
of  his  darkly  tanned  face  were  twitching  jerkily  and  the 
arteries  on  his  forehead  had  risen  in  knotted  cords. 

After  awhile  he  leaned  over  to  tap  the  ashes  from  the 
bowl  of  his  pipe  and  spoke  with  careful  steadiness. 

"Miss  Ferriss  has  a  child,  you  say?" 

"Yes — I  forgot  you  had  been  out  of  the  world  for 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  273 

some  time.  Good  Lord!  And  you  didn't  hear,  of 
course "  Carson  stammered  uncomfortably. 

Mendoza  very  deliberately  refilled  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

The  few  palm  trees  that  were  etched  blackly  against  the 
horizon,  were  as  immovable  in  the  still  air  as  though 
carved  in  ebony.  The  silver  smoke  of  the  little  fire  rose 
in  a  straight,  slender  column  toward  the  sky.  The 
haunting  cry  of  the  boatmen  had  sunk  into  silence  and  the 
great  crystal  globe,  low  on  the  edge  of  the  world,  burned 
now  with  an  ochre  fire. 

Carson  rose  with  a  long  and  very  audible  yawn.  "Not 
that  I  love  thee  less,  old  man, — but  I  love  my  little  tent 
in  the  wilderness  more  at  this  hour  of  the  night.  Or 
rather  morning !  I  have  talked  myself  hoarse,  like  a  per- 
fect gentleman,  to  be  obliging  to  a  benighted  expatriate, 
and  now  I'm  going  to  say  my  'Now-I-lay-me'  and  turn 
in.  'Night!" 

Mendoza  rose  to  pilot  his  sleepy  guest  to  his  tent,  then 
returned  to  his  chair  by  the  fire.  The  ochre  sphere 
dropped  down  beyond  the  edge  of  the  world.  After 
awhile  a  phantom  finger  traced  a  pale  line  between  the 
purple  velvet  sky  and  rolling  sea  of  sand  shrouded  in 
dark  mystery.  Then  the  pale  line  slowly  widened  across 
the  East.  The  camels  stirred  uneasily  and  one,  and  then 
another,  painfully  struggled  up  from  calloused  knees  to 
their  feet,  their  little  bells  rolling  petulantly. 

The  phantom  hand  now  swept  hurriedly  across  the 
wide  dome  that  arched  like  an  inverted  bowl  over  the 
desert,  and  the  edge  of  a  molten  copper  disk  appeared 
out  of  the  far  sea  of  sand. 

The  native  servants  wakened  and  knelt,  with  brows 
touching,  upon  their  prayer-rugs,  and  with  faces  turned 
to  the  East.  Mendoza  had  not  moved,  and  his  body- 
servant  went  to  him  and  spoke.  He  was  staring  into 


274  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

the  ashes  of  the  little  fire,  but  raised  his  head  and  an- 
swered the  servant  gently.  In  his  eyes  was  a  terrible 
hunger — the  hunger  that  breaks  the  hearts  of  even  strong 
men. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVEN 

THE  night  the  camel-riders  slept  and  Graydon  Men- 
doza  watched  the  dying  fire,  while  he  and  his  soul 
went  down  into  the  depths  where  old  sins  rise  up  and 
strike  with  a  bitterness  worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death 
— on  this  night  June  Ferriss,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world,  also  watched. 

Sleep  had  passed  her  by,  so  she  had  at  last  slipped 
from  her  bed,  twisted  a  long,  dark  cloak  around  her,  and 
settled  herself  on  the  steps  leading  to  the  garden  to 
watch  the  always  new  wonder  of  dawn  coming  over  the 
world. 

The  soft,  multitudinous  whirr  of  garden  voices,  the 
brave  little  chirp  of  crickets,  the  fairy  castanets  of  tree 
insects, — all  the  tender,  sleepy  sounds  of  the  night  where 
trees  whisper  and  dew-wet  earth  and  grasses  give 
fragrant  breath,  rose  around  her. 

The  great  moon  that  had  sent  its  flood  of  radiance 
down  on  the  little  cluster  of  tents  in  far  Egypt  a  few 
hours  before,  now  touched  the  tops  of  thick  clustering 
trees  with  silver  and  shone  palely,  but  distantly,  down  on 
the  humid  sweetness  of  the  garden. 

And  where  the  man  fought  the  bitter  fight  with  mem- 
ory, where  he  sat  by  the  wise,  silent  river,  and  felt  the 
intolerable  ache  of  homesickness  that  had  been  his  portion 
as  slow  months  lengthened  into  years,  the  woman  on  the 
little  wooden  steps  of  her  home  felt,  too,  the  heimweh 
of  the  soul,  the  spirit's  homesickness  in  the  wilderness. 

She  was  holding  together  the  little  home  for  her 
nestlings — her  child  and  her  father — the  mother-woman 

275 


276  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

of  her  faithful  to  its  instinct  to  guard  and  nourish.  But 
the  tax  upon  her  body  that  frequently,  as  to-night,  would 
not  let  her  sleep,  weakened  the  will  that  held  sternly 
to  the  patient  round  of  the  day's  demands,  and  out  of  her 
weakness  the  spirit  pressed  forward  crying  imperatively 
for  its  other  self, — for  the  pillar  upon  which  to  lean, 
for  the  voice  whose  language  was  that  which  only  her  own 
soul  spoke  and  understood. 

The  day  had  caught  her  up  into  a  gay  party  of  old 
friends  at  the  Inn,  and  she  had  cast  aside  harness  for 
an  afternoon  and  evening  of  frivolling,  which  friends 
and  physicians  insisted  upon  as  necessary  for  health's 
sake.  And  she  had  earnestly  tried  to  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  grown-up  play  that  her  good  sense  told  her  was 
Nature's  antidote  for  labour. 

But  the  play  she  found  only  to  be  play-acting,  after 
all,  and  she  realised  with  growing  satiety  as  the  hours 
passed,  that  these  laughing  idlers  to  whom  she  had  once 
belonged,  with  their  superficial  brilliancy  of  clothes  and 
speech,  were  dancing  along  a  path  to  which  she  could 
never  again  return. 

They  belonged  to  the  surface  of  things;  but  she,  the 
pomegranate  aloes-sweet  on  her  lips,  had  penetrated  the 
Earth's  hidden  darknesses,  had  climbed  down  Tartarean 
steps  to  where  naked  souls  lifted  writhing  arms  of  pain 
and  toil  and  fearful  sorrow. 

And  the  shallow  interests  with  which  these  laughing 
and  care-free  fortunates  filled  their  days,  amused  for  a 
little,  but  not  for  long.  The  Vagabonds  made  merry, 
but  their  foolery  was  the  garland  of  field  flowers  that 
draped  the  ox-yoke  of  labour.  Through  their  nonsense 
ran  the  undertone  of  achievement,  of  things  striven  for, 
of  failures  that  refused  to  see  defeat,  of  successes  wrested 
stubbornly  from  the  "horny  hands  of  Fate." 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  277 

Of  all  this  the  idlers  knew  nothing,  and  June  realised 
that  their  ways  would  never  again  be  her  ways,  nor  their 
gods  her  gods. 

And  so  in  the  soft  darkness  of  the  garden  she  weighed 
and  laid  aside  the  days  that  wore  the  trappings  of  a 
Columbine  and  of  a  Harlequin,  just  as  before  them  she 
had  laid  aside  the  toys  and  trinkets  of  the  little  girl. 
She  had  gone  immeasurably  far  beyond  them,  and  she 
looked  back  at  the  Garden  of  Delight  with  its  butterfly 
throng,  with  a  very  human  sense  of  loneliness.  They 
now  called  her,  but  when  she  did  not  return  they  would 
very  soon  forget.  That  she  knew. 

And  now  she  must  turn  her  face  to  the  things  that 
were  different  and  the  ways  that  were  her  own.  They 
were  ways  rugged  and  stern,  and  they  called  to  the  fight- 
ing blood  in  her  that  always  stirred  and  responded. 
But  her  intelligence  cried  for  a  Cause,  her  justice  cried 
for  a  recompense. 

For  what  was  she  fighting?  To  what  would  the  long 
effort  lead? 

Just  back  of  the  line  of  trees  were  great  factories 
where  little  children  toiled.  For  these  children  she  was 
now  working  with  her  daintily  sharp  sketches.  The 
world  was  very  busy  and  very  heedless.  It  would  not 
read  pleas  nor  prayers.  But  it  would  glance  at  pictures 
— pictures  that  caught  its  eye  and  appealed  with  beauty 
or  satire  or  sting. 

So  very  deftly,  very  carefully,  she  was  leading  that 
clumsy,  easily  alarmed  mastodon,  the  Public,  step  by  step 
along  a  series  of  Dan  Cupid  pictures  that  should  lead 
into  the  child  industries. 

It  was  a  dangerous  thing  to  do.  She  was  interfering 
with  the  "established  order,"  and  that  great,  unseen 


278  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

Power  behind  it  that  manipulated  men  and  wires  and 
affairs  was  a  very  terrible  Power. 

The  Press  was  behind  her  so  far,  and  it  sometimes, 
here  and  there,  would  give  strength  to  the  weak.  But 
the  Power  was  stronger  than  the  Press  and  in  the  end 
it  generally  mastered. 

A  rising  wind  swayed  the  trees  and  rushed  through 
them  with  the  sound  of  surf  on  the  beach.  June  lifted 
her  face  to  it  eagerly  as  it  whipped  her  loose  hair  across 
her  eyes  and  lips. 

The  night  with  its  innumerable  voices  seemed  to  draw 
close  to  her  with  a  mysterious  and  tender  intimacy,  and 
the  strain  of  the  day  that  fretted,  yielded  gratefully 
to  the  cool,  healing  shadows. 

The  eternal  wonder  of  the  sea  of  stars — signs  pricked 
by  the  stylus  of  unseen  gods — drew  her  gaze  with  the 
awed  fascination  that  had  questioned  when  she  was  a 
child.  Then  she  had  questioned  the  mystery  of  their 
world-old  beauty.  Now  the  groping  soul  wistfully 
sought  the  meaning  written  in  silver  across  the  world's 
darkness. 

She  had  passed  through  the  slow  disillusioning  of  life's 
little  vanities,  and  she  relinquished  them  now  without  re- 
gret for  their  loss.  But  her  spirit  shrank  from  the  void 
they  left,  as  one  shrinks  from  the  echoing  emptiness  of  a 
dismantled  house.  She  could  tire  her  body  with  days 
crowded  and  exacting,  but  the  mind  often  refused  the 
sleep  that  was  labour's  due.  And  when  it  did,  the  echoing 
of  the  empty  house  reached  her  heart  with  a  physical 
hurt. 

Somewhere  in  that  dark  dome  that  arched  over  her,  the 
lode-star  shone  in  the  "innumerable  company  of  stars." 
She  had  followed  its  cold  and  high  command  through 
ways  dark  and  terrible.  Its  ice-flame  had  burned  through 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  279 

the  comfortable  trappings  of  expediency,  and  she  pressed 
close  at  the  price  of  scars — at  the  price  of  poverty,  of 
crime  against  the  law,  of  slander,  of  loneliness. 

There  was  no  glory  of  heroic  deeds.  There  were  mis- 
takes and  blunders,  there  were  stumblings  of  unwisdom 
and  weaknesses  that  marked  the  spirit's  "dead  low  tide." 
And  these  her  wakeful  nights  always  laid  before  her  with 
care — the  jetsam  of  broken  and  troubled  years. 

But  yet,  though  she  had  stumbled  again  and  again 
to  her  knees,  she  had  always  somehow  struggled  up 
again  and  gone  on,  holding  to  the  fitful  gleam  that  only 
said  "Perhaps!" 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-EIGHT 

AND  so  it  was,  over  a  month  later,  June  Ferriss  again 
crept  from  the  house  where  her  father  and  child 
slept,  to  the  steps  leading  to  the  garden.  Through  the 
sound  of  soft  night  voices  she  heard,  without  heeding, 
the  distant  noise  of  a  train  that  stopped  and  then  went 
on  again.  And  then,  after  awhile,  of  a  step  coming 
along  the  road.  This  she  did  not  heed  till  it  paused 
at  her  gate. 

Then  she  turned  and  peered  curiously  through  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  at  the  man  who  came  steadily  up  the 
little  earthen  path  and  who  paused,  with  head  uncovered, 
before  her. 

"It  is— you!" 

She  just  breathed  the  words  in  utter  amaze. 

Graydon  Mendoza  stood  in  front  of  her,  but  not  the 
man  she  had  known.  The  darkly  tanned  face  was  thin 
and  haggard,  and  he  had  aged  by  many  years.  He  stood 
hesitatingly  for  a  moment,  then  lifted  his  head  and  drew 
a  sharp,  difficult  breath. 

"I  have  been  out  of  civilisation  for  two  years.  Carson 
was  my  guest — a  month  ago.  He  told  me  of  you,  and 
of — the  boy.  And  so — I  am  here." 

When  he  ceased  speaking  the  multitudinous,  peace- 
ful voices  of  the  night  closed  around  them  again,  and 
the  soft  "hush — hush!"  of  the  trees  whispered  mysteri- 
ously. The  woman  sitting  on  the  steps  did  not  move  from 
where  she  leaned  against  the  rustic  post,  holding  the 
soft,  dark  cloak  around  her,  and  the  man,  uncovered, 
stood  silently  in  the  dim  light  of  the  stars,  and  waited. 

280 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  281 

After  what  seemed  a  very  long  time,  June  Ferriss 
slowly  rose  to  her  feet.  Mendoza's  hands  tightened  sud- 
denly on  the  soft  hat  he  held  in  them  but  he  did  not  offer 
to  assist  her. 

With  her  draperies  gathered  around  her,  June  paused 
a  moment,  looking  at  him  inscrutably,  then  she  made  a 
little  gesture  toward  the  steps.  Obediently,  he  stepped 
forward  and  seated  himself,  as  she  turned  and  softly 
entered  the  house. 

Action,  thought, — the  world  and  the  stars  stood  still 
for  the  man  who  lifted  his  face  to  the  skies.  In  the 
silence  of  the  garden  he  waited,  as  he  waited  in  Egypt, 
for  the  night  to  pass. 

At  the  soft  rustle  of  garments,  Mendoza  rose  to  his 
feet  and  stood  at  attention.  The  door  of  the  house 
was  opened  and  June  came  out  of  the  darkness,  into  the 
starlight.  In  her  arms  she  held  the  sleeping  child,  the 
night  breeze  playing  across  his  flushed  face  and  lifting 
the  golden,  roughened  curls. 

Holding  the  sweet,  heavy  burden  against  her  breast, 
she  looked  into  the  man's  strained  eyes  with  grave  gentle- 
ness. The  soft  hat  was  on  the  path  at  his  feet,  the  arms 
were  straight  at  his  sides  with  the  fists  clenched,  and 
though  he  stood  rigidly  erect,  she  could  see  that  he  was 
shaking  as  a  strong  tower  shakes  in  the  grip  of  the 
earthquake. 

Shifting  the  limp  body  of  the  baby,  she  leaned  forward 
and  laid  it  in  Mendoza's  arms,  that  mechanically  met 
and  closed  around  it. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-NINE 

OF  course,  the  whole  situation  is — impossible !" 
Dr.  Stanley  was  sitting  on  the  corner  of  the  big 
desk  where  June  Ferriss  worked.  Mr.  Ferriss  was  in  his 
arm-chair  by  the  window.  The  sunshine  streamed 
through  the  vines  that  climbed  riotously  over  the  windows 
and  around  the  doorway,  and  the  leaves  flickered  and 
danced  gaily  in  a  capricious  little  breeze. 

Dr.  Kate  traced  one  sunbeam  that  quivered  on  the 
floor,  with  the  toe  of  her  very  smart  shoe,  and  puckered 
her  eyebrows  perplexedly. 

"When  you  marry  him  and  go  back  to  Egypt,  people 
will  sit  up  again  and  ask  questions.  It  will  be  the  usual 
nine-days  wonder.  But  that  will  be  the  end  of  it.  It 
is  all  impossible — but  events  crowd  fast,  nowadays,  and 
all  life  is  in  the  melting-pot.  So  nothing  nor  nobody 
attracts  attention  that  matters  much  any  more.  There  is 
not  time  to  study  any  one  picture  on  the  film.  The 
Great  Movie  keeps  right  on  a-goin'!  I  suppose,"  she 
added  reflectively,  "the  best  way  to  do  would  be  to  be 
married  at  once,  so  Gray  can  get  back  to  those  wonder- 
ful ditches  he  is  planning  and  leave  Jimmy  Ferriss  in 
our  care.  We  will  look  after  him — Carl  and  Dr.  Orth 
and  I!" 

June  leaned  back  and  studied  her  sketch  critically  a 
moment,  then  said,  as  she  had  said  once  before:  "But 
I  am  not  going  to  marry  him,  you  see!" 

During  a  long  pause  of  absolutely  stunned  silence, 
Dr.  Stanley  stared  at  the  toe  of  her  immaculate  shoe. 

282 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  283 

Then  she  pulled  herself  together  with  an  evident  effort 
and  turned  slightly  to  face  the  artist. 

"You  are  not  going  to  marry  him,"  she  repeated  in  a 
monotone,  and  June  shook  her  head. 

"No." 

There  was  a  little  flicker  of  emotion,  of  relief,  in 
the  finely  carved  face  of  the  man  at  the  window,  but 
his  gaze  remained  dreamily  on  the  garden  and  its  depth 
of  greenness. 

"If  I — would  it — would  you  very  much  mind  if  I  en- 
quired why?" 

Dr.  Stanley's  voice  was  very  carefully  polite,  but  there 
was  evidence  of  strong  internal  agitation. 

"Why?— Why  should  I?" 

Dr.  Stanley  lowered  her  two  correct  shoes  to  the  floor 
and  she  walked  over  to  the  door  and  back.  Pausing 
at  the  desk,  she  looked  at  the  serene  worker  while  im- 
potent exasperation  scintillated  around  her. 

"Because  it  would  establish  your  boy." 

June  laid  down  her  pencil  with  a  slight  but  patient 
sigh. 

"My  dear  Katrinka,"  she  said  quietly.  "Your  sup- 
pressed emotions  are  emitting  sparks  like  a  Marconi 
tower.  This  situation  can  be  held  to  a  sane  recognition 
of  facts,  or  it  can  topple  over  into  absurdity.  I  intend 
to  hold  it  to  facts.  You  are  talking  about  a  position  in 
the  established  order.  You  must  first  show  why  and 
where  the  established  order  should  command  my  at- 
tention. I  am  not  interested  in  it,  you  see." 

"But  for  the  boy's  sake !" 

June  looked  at  her  frankly  and  steadily,  then  leaned 
forward  on  her  elbows,  her  loosely  clasped  hands  resting 
on  the  sloping  board. 

"My  dear/'  she  said.    "I  am  not  stupid,  of  course.    I 


284  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

understand  that  you  would  like  me  to  marry,  and  that 
would  be  a  comfortable  settlement  of  the  matter  for  all 
concerned.  Only,  you  see,  you  evade  the  main  issue, 
you  ignore  the  personal  equation.  I  am  the  one  who 
would  marry.  I  do  not  wish  to.  You  say  'for  the  boy's 
sake.'  I  say  that  no  boy  that  I  would  respect  would 
respect  his  mother  for  entering  into  an  unlovely  alliance 
because  the  established  order  considered  it  expedient.  I 
have  an  idea  that  my  boy  will  think  as  I  do.  His  name 
now  is  James  Ferriss.  If  he  would  rather  have  a  different 
name,  that  I  would  have  to  buy  for  him  at  the  price  of 
my  own  dignity  and  self-respect,  he  would  not  be  my 
boy.  We  would  be  strangers  and  I  would  despise  him. 

"I  am  not  going  to  marry  Mendoza.  I  am  not  going 
to  marry  any  man  unless  I  want  to.  I  am  not  going  to 
let  any  combination  of  circumstances  close  around  me 
and  drive  me  into  'holy  matrimony'  that  would  be  an 
offence  to  every  instinct  of  my  body  and  my  spirit. 
The  world  is  on  the  other  side  of  my  gate.  I  do  not 
seek  it.  It  is  a  great,  big,  groping,  astigmatic  enigma. 
I  am  sorry  for  it,  but  I  do  not  revere  it,  nor  fear  it. 
You  people  who  understand  my  point  of  view,  come  to 
me  and  I  give  you  myself  as  I  am.  The  others,  who 
neither  understand  nor  approve,  are  privileged  to  remain 
away,  and  they  do  not  interest  me.  Within  my  own 
four  walls  are  my  work,  and  my  books,  and  my  friends. 
That  means  peace.  And  I  will  not  permit  a  world's 
cowardly  compromise,  that  stains  my  womanhood,  to 
destroy  that  peace." 

The  doctor  lifted  her  hands  in  resigned  surrender. 

"It  is  for  you  to  choose,  of  course!  The  other  way 
seemed  the  lesser  of  the  two  evils.  It  would  be  the  easier 
way.  You 'have  a  long  road  yet  to  go  and  it  is  going  to 
be  a  hard  one.  You  will  be  misunderstood,  maligned, 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  285 

and  all  that  you  are  now  battling  for  will  be  used  against 
you,  to  defame  you.  George  Eliot  was  reviled  and 
Ellen  Key  is  slandered.  It  is  the  price  they  pay  for 
daring  to  think.  The  mob  does  not  think.  It  herds  to- 
gether and  plunges  ahead,  and  the  dust  it  raises  is  so 
thick  it  couldn't  see  clearly  if  it  had  intelligence  to  see 
with,  which  it  hasn't.  When  you  step  out  of  the  herd 
because  you  have  personal  scruples  against  the  deeds  that 
the  dust-cloud  obscures,  you  make  yourself  a  target.  The 
Sebastian  role  is  not  a  comfortable  one.  I  may  despise 
the  mob,  but  I  would  rather  drift  along  with  it  than  be 
a  pin-cushion  for  their  arrows.  What's  the  use?" 

June's  eyebrows  lifted.  "But  I  wouldn't,  you  see,"  she 
explained,  adding  placidly — "and  I  don't  believe  you." 

"Oh,  you  don't  ?"  Dr.  Stanley  glared  at  her  a  moment. 
"Well,  I'm  talking  sense,  anyhow,  though  it  is  possible 
that  I  wouldn't  exhibit  any  more  than  you  do,  if  I  got  my 
back  up.  You  have  a  mulish  streak  in  you  that  will  help 
a  lot — so  had  Sebastian,  and  that  is  why  he  took  his 
arrows  and  didn't  whimper.  But  you  won't  always  have 
Dad  Ferriss,  and  the  coming  years  will  shift  your  friends 
East  and  West.  And  then ?" 


CHAPTER  FORTY 

AND  then?"  June  smiled.  "Why  then — we  will  still 
be  good  friends,  my  soul  and  I.  I  will  not  be  afraid 
to  be  alone  with  it.  In  the  final  analysis,  that  is  the  real 
thing,  isn't  it?  There  is  a  great,  confused  world  of 
humans  out  there.  Are  they  happy?  Do  they  know — 
peace  ?" 

She  looked  up  at  the  other  steadily. 

"They  are  not  happy,  and  you  know  that  they  scramble, 
buffet,  clutch  and  fight  in  a  mad,  breathless  climb.  They 
want  more  money,  more  society,  more  clothes,  more 
power,  more  display.  They  want — and  want — and  want. 
They  are  never  satisfied.  There  is  always  a  higher  rung 
of  the  ladder.  They  want  till  they  die.  Well?  If 
they  do  not  gain,  they  are  soured  and  bitter.  If  they 
do,  with  that  sort  of  want,  possession  means  satiety. 
They  are  chasing  rainbows.  Can  they  give  me  anything  ? 
I  have  'my  ain  four  walls' — my  fire,  my  books,  my 
pictures.  They  all  look  at  me  with  friendly  eyes.  They 
never  fail  me,  nor  hurt  me.  My  work  gives  me  sus- 
tenance. 'Peace  after  pain,  calm  after  stormie  seas,  doth 
greatlie  please.'  That  is  my  life.  The  arrows  have 
to  stop  at  the  four  walls.  And — we  are  good  friends, 
my  soul  and  I !" 

With  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  the  doctor  put  her  fists 
into  her  coat  pockets  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room 
meditatively.  Going  over  to  the  back  of  her  father's 
chair,  June  smoothed  his  thick  grey  hair  with  her  finger 
tips  and  kissed  the  top  of  his  head. 

"It  is  the  better  part,  isn't  it,  Jimmy  Ferriss  ?" 

286 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  287 

He  looked  up  at  her  gravely,  and  in  his  eyes  was  a 
light,  very  deep  and  very  tender. 

"It  is  the  better  part,  girl,"  he  answered. 

And  so  Mendoza  went  back  to  his  world  of  past  cen- 
turies, but  in  place  of  the  old,  gnawing  pain  there  was 
something  of  content — there  was  something  to  live  for. 

The  boy  was  to  be  shared  with  him.  As  soon  as  he 
was  old  enough,  he  would  spend  half  of  his  time  with 
Mendoza.  And  Mendoza  now  faced  the  heroic  problems 
of  the  desert  with  a  mighty  purpose  warming  and  vitalis- 
ing his  heart.  He  had  a  boy  to  live  and  work  for,  to 
dream  and  succeed  for.  The  horror  of  loneliness  in  that 
arid,  illimitable  sea  of  sand — the  ghosts  that  reproached 
and  the  spectres  that  jibbered — these  at  last  would  be 
laid.  Over  the  desert  an  oasis  spread  and  in  the  night 
shone  a  star. 

Meanwhile,  June  Ferriss  had  the  bewildered  and 
despairing  protests  of  her  closest  friends  to  meet.  The 
Rev.  and  Mrs.  Drake  in  particular  were  sincerely  shocked 
and  deeply  troubled  at  this  last,  and,  to  them,  now  inex- 
plicable mutiny. 

Her  former  genuine  liking  for  Graydon  Mendoza  was 
given  as  an  unanswerable  argument  for  a  sensible  com- 
promise now,  and  her  gentle  but  firm  refusal  to  consider 
a  marriage  so  advisable  from  every  possible  point  of 
view,  brought  Mrs.  Drake  to  actual  tears. 

Unshaken  in  her  resolve  as  she  remained,  June  was 
worried  by  the  pressure  brought  to  bear  against  her  de- 
cision, and  when  the  final  arguments  had  been  advanced 
and  advocated  and  at  last  silenced,  the  inevitable  reac- 
tion left  her  exhausted  and  with  her  nerves  tingling. 

The  cool  darkness  of  the  garden  called  her,  and  in 
its  quiet  she  strove  to  overcome  the  peculiar,  internal 


288  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

tremor  that  causes  such  indescribable,  yet  such  acute 
suffering,  to  those  with  over-strained  and  sick  nerves. 

This  condition  she  dreaded  particularly  because  it 
weakened  the  stern  philosophy  that  held  her  life  to  its 
course,  and  it  let  loose  the  dread  depression,  latent  but 
unsleeping,  that  rolled  its  bitter  waters  over  the  little 
structure  of  peace  her  will  builded  and  guarded  so 
jealously. 

After  the  birth  of  "Peter  Pan"  the  old  injury  in  her 
side  did  not  cause  steady  suffering,  as  formerly.  But 
protracted  work  or  duress  stirred  the  little  devils  of  pain 
to  activity  again,  and  to-night  her  lips  were  pressed  to- 
gether in  a  straight  line,  and  her  eyes  were  encircled  with 
bistre  shadows  as  she  crouched  on  the  steps  and  gave  bat- 
tle to  the  world  that  thrust  its  strength  against  her 
portals. 

She  had  held  to  her  resolution,  but  she  was  alone,  and 
she  cried  out  for  the  solace  of  her  old  gods — the  gods 
that  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  world's  ways.  Close 
as  were  those  who  believed  in  her  and  loved  her,  yet  in 
the  crucial  moments  they,  too,  were  ranged  against  her  in 
the  short-sightedness  of  the  affection  they  bore  her,  which 
sought  to  safeguard  with  concessions. 

For  James  Ferriss,  still  in  his  prime,  esteemed  and 
loved,  life  still  held  much  and  it  was  only  a  matter  of 
time  till  he  would  rebuild  over  the  wreckage  of  his 
first  marriage.  The  child  gripped  her  with  his  baby 
fingers,  her  heart  answering  to  his  helplessness  with  a 
yearning,  protective  tenderness. 

But  for  the  woman  of  her,  life  had  yet  given  nothing. 
As  daughter  and  mother  a  profound  affection  found 
expression;  but  a  something  deeper  and  greater  strug- 
gled for  utterance,  and  struggled  against  locked  lips. 
Already  threads  of  silver  were  thickening  in  the  soft 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  289 

dark  hair  at  her  temples.  The  sonorous  diapason  of  Life 
had  steadied,  but  had  saddened  her.  The  repression  of 
the  patient  lips  had  intensified  the  baffled  longing  for 
speech,  and  to  the  night  and  its  mystery  her  soul  went 
out  in  bitter  loneliness  and  questioning. 

"To  care — to  the  very  core  of  my  soul!"  Her  eyes 
sought  the  great  canopy  of  stars.  "If  you  would  just 
give  me  that!  To  live  to  the  full  extent  of  one's  being  I 
To  feel,  in  every  nerve  and  fibre  and  vein!  Not  to 
pretend,  not  to  make  the  best  of  lesser  things,  but 
to  care  with  brain  and  body  and  spirit!  It  would  ex- 
plain, and  repay — it  would  be  an  earnest  of  what  might 
sometime  reward.  To  care,  as  I  could  care!  If  you 
would  give  me  that,  just  once — even  if  with  a  price !" 

Out  of  the  vast  night  the  spirits  of  all  the  past  cen- 
turies seemed  to  be  thronging  around  her,  crowding  close 
while  the  rustle  of  their  unseen  garments  blended  with 
the  rustle  of  the  night  wind  through  the  trees.  They, 
too,  had  striven  and  hoped,  had  suffered  and  loved. 
Some  had  loved  greatly,  many  unworthily,  more  still  had 
played  at  love  or  sold  it  in  the  market  place.  They 
seemed  trying  to  tell  her  and  to  be  sorrowful  because 
she  could  not  understand.  But  through  their  confused, 
silent  clamouring,  the  voices  that  had  come  to  her  across 
the  wide,  dark  waters,  came  to  her  now  over  the  sleep- 
ing hills — pagan,  perhaps,  but  high  and  clear  and  stern. 

And  her  beaten  will  slowly  gathered  back  its  strength 
to  endure,  to  go  on. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-ONE 

THE  paintings  are  wonderful — not  to  know  them  is 
to  argue  yourself  unknown!  So  you  will  please 
powder  your  nose  and  come  on!" 

Even  so  had  "Mrs.  Bob"  declared  herself,  when  she 
had  returned  Peter  Pan  to  his  home  after  a  glorious  day 
over  hill  and  dale.  The  paintings  were  those  of  a  famous 
artist  and  were  on  view  at  the  Inn,  so  Mrs.  Keith  had 
invited  herself  to  dinner  with  June  with  the  avowed  inten- 
tion of  taking  her  hostess  afterward  to  see  the  wonderful 
canvases. 

And  June  Ferriss,  impatient,  of  the  savourless,  flat 
days  that  seemed  to  drag  reluctantly,  consented  to  be 
taken  away  from  harness  for  an  hour's  relaxation. 

As  Mrs.  Keith  stopped  her  car  before  the  broad  steps 
that  led  to  the  long,  lighted  veranda  of  the  Inn,  she  and 
June  were  gaily  hailed  by  a  waiting  group,  who  piloted 
them  down  the  corridor  to  the  ball-room,  where  the 
pictures  were  on  view. 

People  in  evening  dress  were  gathered  in  front  of  each 
painting,  or  sauntering  from  scene  to  scene,  and  the  hum 
of  voices  blended  cheerfully  with  the  music  of  stringed 
instruments  that  came  from  the  gallery.  June's  friends 
joined  in  the  animated  discussions  of  colour  and  per- 
spective and  technique,  appealing  to  her  for  confirma- 
tion or  support,  and  she  strove  earnestly  to  rouse  herself 
to  like  interest  and  enthusiasm.  It  was  not  easy — the 
long  strain  of  effort  and  contest  had  sapped  the  springs 
of  earlier  enthusiasm  in  art,  as  in  life,  and  even  while  she 
responded  to  the  comment  and  good-natured  banter  that 

290 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  291 

played  around  her,  she  was  conscious  of  an  inner  disin- 
terest that  made  the  response  hollow  in  her  own  ears. 

The  senator,  Judge  Steele  and  the  Cummings  were 
amiably  wrangling  over  the  respective  merits  of  old  and 
new  schools,  and  she  knew  herself  to  be  answering  ab- 
sent-mindedly while  her  gaze  wandered  over  the  room. 

As  the  groups  dissolved  and  changed,  a  sort  of  lane 
opened  before  the  high  throne-chair  in  which  she  had 
seated  herself.  Diagonally  across  the  room  a  little  cluster 
of  men  stood  before  a  sea-view,  and  among  them  she 
saw  Dr.  Orth.  His  back  was  toward  her  as  he  faced 
the  painting,  listening  to  a  man  beside  him  who  was  talk- 
ing with  much  animation  and  frequent  gestures.  Fully 
half  the  length  of  the  ball-room  was  between  them,  but 
June  felt  herself  grow  suddenly  tense  with  interest.  She 
had  not  seen  the  surgeon  for  nearly  two  weeks,  and  it 
now  came  over  her  suddenly  and  strangely  that  she  had 
missed  him,  that  she  had  needed  him,  and  that  now  she 
wanted  him — that  she  wanted  him  imperatively. 

Her  easy,  half-languid  attitude  did  not  change,  her 
lips  smiled  and  answered  obediently  the  whimsical  ap- 
peals of  the  disputants  around  her,  her  eyes  seemed  look- 
ing with  lazy  amusement  on  the  bright  and  laughing 
throngs. 

But  through  the  music  and  the  murmur  of  well-bred 
voices,  a  cry  went  from  her  soul  to  the  soul  of  the  man  on 
the  far  side  of  the  crowded  room — "John  Orth!  John 
Orth! " 

The  throngs  were  but  a  bright-hued  phantasmagoria; 
the  voices,  with  her  own  among  them,  were  unreal  and 
mechanical.  Nothing  was  real  but  the  need  that  leaped 
to  life  with  blinding  suddenness  as  her  slow-moving  gaze 
reached  the  quiet  figure  of  one  man  in  that  far  group. 

Instant,  unthinking,  the  cry  that  had  waited  long  be- 


292  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

hind  locked  lips  made  its  appeal.  And  so  urgent  was 
it,  she  felt  only  a  desperate  impatience,  unsurprised,  as 
the  man  turned  on  his  heel  and  came  straight  across 
the  room  to  her  chair. 

She  watched  him  from  under  lowered  lids  as  he  reached 
her  side  and  paused,  acknowledging  with  his  usual  quiet 
courtesy  the  little  chorus  of  salutations  that  greeted  him. 
She,  herself,  did  not  join  in  them.  That  call,  that  seemed 
to  hold  in  it  all  the  tense  waiting  of  her  whole  life, 
shook  her  being  to  its  very  centre.  The  vast  combina- 
tion of  causes  had  evolved  this  moment,  slowly,  inevit- 
ably, as  grind  the  mills  of  the  gods,  and  when  the  moment 
came,  her  soul  had  thrust  back  and  down  the  last  barrier 
that  stood  in  the  way  and  had  cried  out  desperately  to 
its  recognised  desi-re. 

And  as  though  the  cry  had  been  audible  across  worlds, 
he  turned  in  immediate  answer  and  now  stood  closely 
beside  the  great  carved  chair.  June's  heart  was  beating 
thickly,  but  she  smiled  up  at  Judge  Steele  as  he  told  her 
of  his  first  purchase  of  an  "old  master"  that  proved  to  be 
very  new.  Her  brain  grasped  all  that  was  said  around 
her  with  wonderful  clearness  and  she  knew  that  she  was 
playing  her  part  easily  and  naturally.  But  while  her 
faculties  answered  obediently  to  the  stern  demand  of  her 
will,  her  soul  was  in  a  tempest  of  confused  exultation. 

"John  Orth!  John  Orth 1"  The  cry  was  beating 

tumultuously  through  heart  and  brain.  Out  of  what 
centuries  of  weary  longing  had  it  burst  at  last,  unerring 
as*a  sword  of  white  flame  that  touched  her  mind,  and  then 
his,  as  with  a  divine  fire!  Repartee  and  soft  laughter 
rose  and  fell  around  them,  the  music  swayed  and  lilted 
over  the  harmonious  confusion,  people  came  and  went, 
and  June's  group,  some  sitting,  some  standing,  changed 
and  shifted.  But  the  quiet  figure  remained,  leaning  easily 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  293 

against  the  back  of  the  throne-chair,  while  golden  minutes 
paced  by  and  her  heart  sang  to  the  magic  of  their  sweet- 
ness. 

There  were  no  scales  nor  foot-rule.  Her  bewildered 
senses  knew  nothing  of  analysis.  She  was  conscious  only 
that  something  supernaturally  wonderful  had  occurred  in 
that  brilliant  ball-room  crowded  with  people  of  the  polite 
world.  They  did  not  know.  But  over  their  tropical 
colour  and  splendour  her  dazzled  eyes  had  seen  the  silver 
ray  of  a  star  that  pointed  to  infinite  things — a  silver  shaft 
that  pierced  to  her  heart  with  a  pain  that  was  exquisitely 
poignant  and  sweet. 

Slowly  the  wild  beating  of  her  pulses  steadied  and 
her  voice  sounded  more  natural  in  her  own  ears.  She 
was  keenly  conscious  of  the  coat-sleeve  near  her  shoulder 
— of  the  quiet  hand  with  its  sensitive  surgeon  fingers  that 
rested  on  the  broad  curved  arm  of  her  chair.  She  was 
leaning  on  the  other  arm,  away  from  him,  and  giving 
her  attention  to  the  senator  who  had  dragged  forward  a 
teakwood  tabouret  for  a  seat.  But  her  lips  were  unsteady 
and  her  eyes  aglow,  for  a  magician-touch  had  trans- 
formed the  great  room  and  its  beauty  was  not  now 
artificial,  its  music  and  laughter  no  longer  mocked. 

Out  of  vagrant  and  formless  inharmonies  a  master- 
hand  had  struck  one  full,  supremely  perfect  chord  that 
flooded  her  whole  life  with  its  meaning,  as  the  grey  of 
hills  and  valleys  is  swept  with  warmth  and  life  and  the 
music  of  birds  at  sunrise.  Harmony,  light,  colour — all 
these  meant  life,  and  all  these  life  had  lacked  till  this 
man  turned  on  his  heel  in  answer  to  that  sudden  cry,  and 
faced  her. 

"What  are  you  saying  to  her,  Bob?"  Charlie  Vance 
demanded.  "As  Opie  Read  puts  it,  'Her  eyes  are  a'singin' 
of  a  tune!'  What  sweet  nothings  are  you  pouring  into 


294  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

her  ear  while  your  neglected  wife  hides  her  breaking  heart 
afar  off?" 

The  senator  glanced  back  at  a  group  of  tub-palms, 
through  which  his  wife  could  be  seen  instructing  a  very 
handsome  youth  in  an  intricate  dance-step. 

"I  think  Toots  will  live  till  morning,"  he  reassured 
Mr.  Vance.  "I  wish  you  would  run  away  and  play, 
Charlie.  I  am  telling  June  things  and  we  don't  want  to 
be  interrupted." 

"Speak  for  yourself !"  replied  Mr.  Vance  aggrievedly. 
"Her  eyes  started  singin'  when  she  saw  me,  anyhow — 
I  don't  think  you  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  A  penny 
for  your  thoughts,  June!  Bob  or  me?" 

"Neither,"  said  Miss  Ferriss  cruelly.  "I  was  think- 
ing of  Oliver  Twist.  Do  you  remember  where  he  'found 
life  unfurnished'  ?  I  wonder  how  many  there  are  in  this 
crowd  of  politely  smiling  people  who  are  paupers  like 
Oliver!" 

"Well,  your  eyes  are  smiling.    How  about  it  ?" 

Her  lips  smiled  with  her  eyes,  then  she  pursed  their 
soft  curves  enigmatically. 

"Dickens  learned  what  hunger  was  before  he  was  able 
to  write  that.  We  keep  the  shades  drawn  on  our  poverty, 
but  we  learn  to  value.  I  discovered  to-night  that  the 
'unfurnished  life'  is  rich." 

"In  possibilities,  you  mean?"  asked  the  senator. 

"In  actualities,"  June  corrected.  "Denial  sharpens  our 
understanding.  Each  bit  that  Oliver  gains,  after  long 
waiting,  is  a  marvellous  thing.  His  is  the  discriminat- 
ing joy  of  the  connoisseur." 

"While  the  golden  spoon  boy  finds  his  furnished  house 
has  been  done  by  the  professional  upholsterer!"  agreed 
Senator  Keith.  "Life  uses  the  birch  freely,  but  after  all 
there  is  a  rough  justice  under  her  discipline." 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  295 

"Takes  a  thundering  lot  of  philosophy  to  find  it  some- 
times, just  the  same!"  objected  Mr.  Vance.  "Anyhow, 
let  us  eat,  drink  and  be  merry !  Come  on,  you  folks.  The 
ozone  from  those  sea-scapes  has  given  me  a  splendid 
appetite.  Wonderful  artist,  that  painter-man!" 


CHAPTER  FORTY-TWO 

DR.  ORTH  was  sitting  at  his  desk  in  his  study,  a 
pile  of  the  German  translations  before  him.  As 
he  read  each  page  with  deliberation,  he  made  notes  on 
a  pad  and  glanced  at  the  desk  clock. 

It  was  almost  time  for  his  morning  clinic  at  the  hos- 
pital, but  his  days  were  always  crowded  and  he  made  use 
of  every  spare  ten  minutes  to  work  on  the  manuscript  for 
his  book. 

The  translations  were  accurate  and  intelligent,  and  as 
his  pencil  followed  them  with  editorial  touches  and  com- 
ments, he  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  camaraderie — of 
the  spirit  of  the  interested  and  sympathetic  co-worker 
that  breathed  in  the  written  words.  To  the  man  who 
had  always  worked  alone,  there  was  something  oddly 
pleasant  in  this  new,  shared  labour.  The  German  word- 
sequence  had  been  carefully  adjusted  by  the  translator 
and  the  subject-matter  "Englished"  in  correct  phrasing 
that  did  not  offend  eye  nor  ear,  while  the  text  had  been 
conscientiously  preserved. 

This  appealed  to  him  both  as  man  and  savant,  and  his 
first  impulse  of  jealous  reluctance  to  trust  work  of  such 
importance  to  untested  hands,  yielded  quickly  to  a  very 
pleasant  sense  of  a  mind  working  quietly  and  interestedly 
in  the  shadow  of  his  own. 

The  day  before  had  been  very  trying.  In  the  evening 
he  had  dropped  in  to  see  Mr.  Ferriss,  and  as  usual  June 
had  given  him  what  manuscript  was  ready.  She  had  noted 
the  grey  weariness  of  his  face,  as  he  sat  down  and  un- 
consciously relaxed  in  the  shadowy  quiet  of  her  work- 

296 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  297 

room.  And  after  explaining  one  or  two  points,  she  asked 
abruptly :  "Why  don't  you  have  some  mercy  on  your- 
self?" 

He  did  not  reply  at  once,  and  her  brows  knitted  as 
she  looked  at  the  lines  and  hollows  that  an  invisible  hand 
was  moulding  deep  into  his  temples  and  beside  the 
sternly  set  mouth. 

"You  know  what  all  work  and  no  play  means,"  she  in- 
sisted with  distinct  irritation.  "No  labour  union  would 
stand  the  hours  you  keep.  You  take  an  evening  now  and 
then  for  a  game  of  cards,  but  what  is  that !  How  long  is 
it  since  you  had  a  vacation?  I  don't  mean  Germany. 
That  was  even  worse  harness  than  here.  And  you  came 
back  and  pitched  into  accumulated  work  without  a  day's 
rest  Why  don't  you  stop?" 

"What  difference  does  it  make?" 

The  question  was  quiet,  disinterested.  In  his  eyes  as 
he  looked  at  her,  she  saw  the  flat  weariness  of  long 
habit — the  weariness  that  endures  without  protest  and 
that  disregards  its  own  burden. 

"Have  you  no  ambition?" 

"No."   ' 

A  chill  of  helplessness  closed  around  her  heart  at  the 
curt  finality  of  the  monosyllable.  Anger,  protest,  dogged- 
ness — these  one  could  meet  and  combat.  They  were 
tangible  and  could  be  grasped  with  argument.  But  this 
undisturbed  indifference,  that  accepted  the  years  as  it 
accepted  the  days  with  silent  acquiescence, — what  weapon 
but  would  glance  from  its  wall  of  ice,  futile  as  a  child's 
little  feathered  arrow! 

Her  very  impotence  fanned  her  irritation  into  a  flame 
of  anger.  She  could  not  disturb  the  calm  that  mirrored 
the  unfathomed  depths  of  this  man's  mind.  But  she 
could  attack  the  impossible,  driven  on  as  she  was  by 


298  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

the  sense  of  revolt  that  stabbed  her  into  protest,  as 
though  with  the  barbed  points  of  the  matador. 

"There  is  no  question  of  duty — of  obligation  to 
others  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  and  she  suddenly  lifted  her 
hand. 

"Don't  you  see  how  you  pervert  duty !"  she  cried  des- 
pairingly. "You  are  letting  it  bear  you  down — you  are 
carrying  the  old  Man  of  the  Sea !  You  don't  look  at  the 
larger  duty,  the  greater  things  to  be  still  accomplished. 
You  are  tired,  through  and  through.  You  have  neither 
rest  nor  play-time  nor  laughter.  You  have  just  work, 
and  it  is  wearing  you  out.  And  you  don't  care!  It 
isn't  that  you  don't  see — but  that  you  don't  want  to 
see.  You  don't  care !" 

The  lead  pencil  had  paused  and  remained  idly  on  the 
paper  at  which  the  surgeon  was  looking  intently  as  the 
desk  clock  ticked  away  the  minutes.  He  was  seeing  the 
eyes,  darkly  angry,  that  arraigned  him — he  was  hearing 
the  voice  that  accused,  and  that  played  upon  the  cold 
immobility  that  encased  his  motives  and  acts  as  with 
whips.  He,  John  Orth,  surgeon  of  international  repute, 
was  brought  to  task  in  a  little  cabin  that  edged  the  mill 
district,  by  a  woman  whose  views  were  diametrically 
opposed  to  his  own ;  who  was  tearing  down  where  he  up- 
held ;  who  was  a  menace  to  the  established  order  that  he 
held  to  be  necessary  and  right. 

"You  do  not  want  to  see! — You  do  not  care!" 

The  relentless  lash  had  curled  around  him,  while  she 
forced  him  from  his  attitude  of  detachment  and  made 
him  face  the  world  as  a  whole  and  see  Life  as  a  broader 
thing  than  his  wearied  isolation  had  cared  to  admit. 

Sternly  and  scrupulously  honest  as  the  stern  Puritan 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  299 

ancestors  whose  blood  ran  in  his  veins,  John  Orth  ac- 
cepted the  arraignment  with  impartial  consideration.  He 
knew  that  he  did  not  want  to  see,  and  to  himself  he 
admitted  that  he  did  not  care.  He  was  tired,  and  the 
poison  of  long  labour  unrelieved  by  counter-channels  of 
interest  that  give  the  mind  rest  and  renewed  strength, 
was  now  evident. 

Well,  what  matter !  He  was  giving  mind  and  body  to 
his  profession,  and  that  was  enough.  The  woman  in  the 
cabin  saw  in  him  qualities  that  might  or  might  not  be 
there — that  might  or  might  not  influence  others.  But 
his  life  had  left  him  incapable  of  added  effort.  He  was 
doing  enough. 

As  he  bent  over  his  work  again,  the  door  opened  and 
Mrs.  Orth  entered.  Her  face  had  the  unhealthy  placidity 
of  the  habitual  drug  user,  otherwise  she  was  as  neutral  in 
appearance  as  in  character.  The  surgeon  did  not  lift  his 
head  as  she  took  a  seat  beside  the  window  and  close  to 
his  desk,  but  as  she  drew  a  single  hair  from  her  head  and 
proceeded  to  break  it,  piece  by  piece,  with  little  snapping 
sounds,  his  lips  tightened. 

A  second  hair,  and  then  a  third,  was  treated  in  the 
same  way,  and  at  last  the  man  straightened  up  suddenly 
and  turned  to  her. 

"Please  do  not  do  that !" 

He  spoke  with  careful  courtesy,  but  his  wife  laughed 
defiantly. 

"I  guess  it's  mine!" 

He  looked  at  the  roughened  and  badly  arranged  hair, 
with  its  broken  ends  in  an  untidy  and  lustreless  halo 
around  the  sallow  face.  The  yellow  hands  were  again 
busy  at  their  old  maddening  trick  and  he  turned  to  his 
writing. 

The  little  persistent  "snip — snip"  followed  him,  light- 


30O  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

ing  on  his  train  of  thought  like  a  gadfly.  He  stood  it 
till  he  found  that  his  thoughts  were  floundering  and 
widely  astray.  Then  he  turned  again  and  spoke: — 
"Would  you  mind  sitting  in  the  other  room?  I  want 
to  go  on  with  my  work  and  that  noise  disturbs  me." 

The  unvarying  courtesy  of  long  and  iron-willed  years 
did  not  falter,  but  the  short,  defiant  laugh  once  more 
answered  him. 

"Oh,  I  like  it  here.     I  don't  think  I'll  change!" 

The  inscrutable  eyes  rested  on  her  for  a  little,  then 
he  turned  and  methodically  gathered  the  loose  sheets 
into  a  neat  pile  and  locked  them  in  the  desk. 

"I  am  going  to  the  hospital  now.     Where  is  Helen?" 

His  wife  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  don't  know.    You  scolded  her  and  she  went  out." 

A  vague  look  of  trouble  showed  for  a  moment  on  his 
impassive  face.  A  little  earlier,  he  had  reproved  the  child 
for  a  slight  error.  His  strained  nerves  were  beginning 
to  tell  on  his  habitual  repression  and  his  voice  was  perhaps 
colder  and  sterner  than  he  realised.  He  remembered  the 
startled  lift  of  her  head,  the  scarlet  that  had  flamed  sud- 
denly across  her  face  and  then  receded,  leaving  it  wax- 
white. 

And  now  he  was  uneasy.  Had  she  taken  the  reproof 
more  seriously  than  he  had  intended  ?  She  was  acutely 
sensitive — a  child  that  brooded  silently  but  who  was  at 
the  same  time  keenly  observant. 

"Tell  her  I  want  to  see  her  after  the  clinic,"  he  said. 
Then  he  took  up  his  hat  and  slowly  went  out  on  the 
grounds  that  extended  to  those  of  the  hospital. 

A  few  days  before  he  had  met  June  Ferriss  as  he  left 
the  big  building  after  the  clinic,  and  they  had  walked 
down  the  road  together  while  she  laughingly  wrangled 
with  him  over  some  nonsensical  matter.  As  she  nodded 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  301 

and  left  him  at  the  lane  that  led  to  her  cabin,  the  child, 
Helen,  had  joined  him.  She  waved  her  hand  smilingly 
to  Miss  Ferriss,  then  slipped  it  through  her  father's  arm 
and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  his  own  inscrutable  eyes. 

"How  happy  you  look,  father!"  she  said  with  quaint 
wistfulness. 

He  had  looked  down  into  the  delicate  face  of  the  little 
woman-child  in  silence.  They  did  not  need  speech,  those 
two !  They  were  very  close  together  in  their  silent  way, 
and  they  understood  each  other  very  well.  And  now  the 
wistful  face  was  very  clear  and  the  wholly  dispropor- 
tionate flush  of  humiliation  that  had  stained  it  that 
morning  troubled  him. 

A  shy  boy  had  walked  home  from  school  the  day  be- 
fore with  her  and  had  given  her  a  rose.  And  he  had 
told  her  she  was  too  young  for  such  attentions.  He 
had  only  wanted  to  keep  his  child  a  child — but  his  voice 
was  unconsciously  stern,  perhaps.  June  Ferriss  had  told 
him  it  was  in  very  plain  terms! 

And — well,  he  would  "make  up"  with  his  sensitive  lit- 
tle daughter  after  clinic.  They  had  "made  up"  before 
after  little  ripples  that  had  marred  their  chumship  once 
or  twice.  And  he  would  explain  to  her  that  he  only  wanted 
to  keep  her  to  himself  as  long  as  he  could.  He  did  not 
want  rivals  yet! 

She  would  understand,  and  the  sensitive  mouth  would 
quiver  into  smiles  again. 

Then  he  turned  as  the  gasping  house-maid  stumbled 
across  the  gravel  path  behind  him  and  called. 

He  was  "in  time"  as  we  express  it.  But  is  that  of 
much  avail,  after  all?  Friends  and  physicians  had  ad- 
vised his  placing  Mrs.  Orth  in  a  retreat,  but  he  had 


3O2  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

shrunk  from  what  seemed  his  shirking  a  duty.  It  seemed 
too  radical  a  step. 

So  the  child,  Helen,  had  grown  familiar  with  the 
phases  and  symptoms  of  drug  taking, — familiar  with 
the  ease  with  which  forgetfulness  could  be  attained.  And 
when  her  sensitive  modesty  had  recoiled  and  sunk  under 
the  sting  of  her  father's  reproof  in  an  agony  of  abase- 
ment, the  familiar  thing  was  at  her  hand.  It  offered 
escape. 

She  was  beyond  speech  when  he  got  her  in  his  arms, 
but  her  eyes  reached  his  for  just  a  moment  before  the 
heavy  lids  veiled  them. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-THREE 

"C*  ROM  his  Night  in  the  Garden,  the  Christ  went  to  a 
•••  Calvary  that  led  to  the  great  peace  of  death.  But 
from  our  Agony  we  are  drawn  back  to  life  by  a  Lilli- 
putian-horde of  daily  demands  armed  with  whips.  Our 
feet  are  placed  on  the  treadmill,  its  creaking  thrills 
through  the  silence  that  has  stunned  our  ears,  the  noise 
and  dust  and  outcry  rise  around  us,  and  we  blindly  stum- 
ble on  and  up  to  meet  the  coming  days  and  months  and 
years. 

We  force  food  past  our  sick  lips  and  we  force  tonics 
into  our  weakening  systems,  because  the  clamouring  de- 
mands of  the  unsleeping  practical  things  are  requiring  of 
us  attention  and  effort. 

And  the  world  gives  us  its  sympathy  for  a  night  and 
a  day,  and  then  forgets  us. 

After  the  child's  death,  John  Orth  returned  to  the 
daily  routine  of  work.  The  grey,  mask-like  pallor  of  his 
face  was  a  little  more  pronounced,  but  that  was  all.  The 
hospital  filled  to  its  capacity  and  waiting  patients  boarded 
in  the  village  at  private  homes  and  the  Inn.  The  mill 
district  called  on  the  noted  man  and  he  answered  to  those 
calls  that  meant  charity  as  conscientiously  as  to  the  others 
that  meant  cheques. 

Occasionally  in  the  shabby  houses  near  the  mills  he 
met  June  Ferriss.  The  mill  children  had  taken  the  law 
into  their  own  hands  and  visited  the  cabin  as  usual.  And 
the  over-worked  and  excitable  mothers  were  not  only 
glad  to  have  them  go,  but,  with  the  easy  adaptability  of 
their  class,  calmly  ignored  their  lapse  into  "benefits  for- 

303 


304   '     The  Towers  of  Ilium 

got"  and  called  upon  the  mistress  of  the  cabin  for  ad- 
vice and  assistance  as  freely  as  ever.  She  did  not 
believe  in  o'er  much  flannels  and  jellies,  it  is  true.  She 
probed  home  mercilessly  through  laziness  and  shiftless- 
ness.  She  found  lighter  work  in  the  village  for  the 
anemic  weaklings  who  were  unable  to  work  in  the  mill, 
and  to  the  men  who  shirked  their  burdens  onto  the 
shoulders  of  wives  and  children,  while  they  themselves 
loafed  and  smoked  on  the  street  corners,  she  showed  no 
quarter. 

She  good-naturedly  jeered  and  bullied  them  first, 
winning  a  good  percentage  back  into  something  like  thrift 
by  fanning  expertly  the  little  flame  of  shame  they  smoth- 
ered by  indolence.  Those  less  easy  to  influence  she 
whipped  into  line  through  various  channels  by  which 
she  could  direct  discomfort  and  pressure.  And  the  wives, 
tired  by  labour  and  too  much  child-bearing,  who  were 
prone  to  slip  into  slatternly  ways,  she  alternately  coaxed 
and  scolded  into  something  like  neatness  and  pride. 

The  surgeon's  occasional  quiet  visits  with  Mr.  Ferriss 
continued  and  one  night,  six  weeks  after  the  Orth  trag- 
edy, when  he  paused  by  the  shaded  lamp  for  the  copy 
June  was  busy  with,  she  rested  her  arms  across  the 
sheets  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  You  are  eating  too 
little  and  you  are  working  too  much.  You  are  ill.  Dr. 
Goethe  and  Kate  and  the  Drakes — they  are  all  wor- 
ried." 

He  stood  passively  beside  her,  his  face  like  pale  stone 
in  the  soft  light,  bistre  streaks  around  his  eyes  and 
grooved  deep  into  his  cheeks.  His  eyes  looked  down  into 
hers  with  the  dull  stare  of  dead  eyes. 

June's  breath  held  suffocatingly  in  her  throat  and  her 
fingers  clenched,  but  her  voice  was  as  steady  as  one  of  his 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  305 

own  knives  as  it  felt  its  way  carefully  between  life  and 
death. 

"To  have  and  to  lose,  where  we  have  cared  much,  is 
a  very  piteous  sorrow.  It  is  one  we  all  have  to  meet  and 
bear,  somehow.  But  you  are  letting  it  kill  you.  Is  that 
as  it  should  be?" 

There  was  no  shade  of  emotion  in  the  face  she 
watched,  but  after  a  pause  he  said,  in  the  level  tones 
that  his  tensely  silent  clinic  auditors  were  familiar  with : 
"Helen  comes  back  to  my  wife  and  to  her  sister,  Mrs. 
Bowen.  They  tell  me  how  frequently  they  can  feel  her 
presence.  Why  doesn't  she  come  to  me  ?" 

With  a  little  choking  cry  of  horrified  unbelief,  her 
hands  closed  tightly  around  his  left  hand  where  it  rested 
inertly  on  the  desk. 

"How  cruel — how  unbelievably,  hatefully  cruel !"  Her 
eyes  blazed  with  anger  at  the  deliberate  malice  that 
dropped  acid  on  the  open  wound  of  this  man's  unsleeping 
remorse.  Mrs.  Bowen  she  had  met — a  very  common- 
place woman  who  had  never  liked  her  sister's  husband — 
and  she  could  see  the  two  women,  little  souled  as  they 
were  of  narrow  intelligence,  playing  upon  the  dumb  suf- 
fering that  laid  a  great  mind  at  their  mercy,  and  enjoying 
their  power. 

"Those  women  lied — lied!"  Her  low  voice  shook 
with  its  passion  of  indignation  and  the  denial  of  this 
unspeakable  thing  leaped  like  flames  from  her  eyes  to 
the  dead  greyness  of  his. 

"Helen  worshipped  you — there  was  nothing  of  an- 
other's blood  in  her.  She  was  you — in  flesh  and  brain 
and  spirit.  She  misunderstood.  But  if  death  does  any- 
thing, it  explains!  And  if  she  could  come  to  any  one, 
she  would  come  to  you — you  know  that! — you  know!" 

Her  fingers  were  vise-like  on  the  wrist  she  held  and 


306  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

her  voice  ached  with  its  agony  of  longing  to  undo  this 
terrible  wrong — to  see  in  that  stricken,  death-calm  face 
something  of  peace. 

"My  dear! — my  dear!"  she  whispered  pitifully. 
"Helen  loved  you,  and  if  they  feel  our  grief,  those  who 
have  passed  beyond  the  reach  of  grief  itself,  don't  you 
see  how  it  must  be  with  her,  to  know  that  her  rash  act  is 
keeping  you  on  a  torture  wheel !  Is  it  fair  to  her,  not  to 
let  her  make  peace  with  you?  For  that  is  what  you  are 
doing!  She  misunderstood  you — we  so  often  misunder- 
stand the  one  we  love  best.  And  all  in  a  moment  she 
did  a  tragic  thing,  not  knowing  how  awful  it  was.  And 
in  the  next  moment  the  threshold  was  crossed  and  then 
she  saw  that  it  was  a  mistake.  But  she  cannot  speak 
to  you  with  human  lips  and  you  will  not  listen  to  the 
spirit  of  her  that  does  speak  to  you.  You  won't  let  her 
make  peace.  And  you  know — you  know — that  her  love 
is  crying  to  you  to  forgive  her  as  she  forgives  you.  You 
know  that  love  does  not  weigh  nor  measure,  it  does  not 
change  nor  resent.  It  mistakes,  and  it  suffers;  but  it 
goes  on  loving,  always  and  always,  as  you  love  Helen, 
as  you  know  that  she  loves  you !" 

Her  uplifted  eyes  held  his  as  she  pleaded  for  the  dead 
child,  for  the  living  man.  Her  voice  hardly  raised  above 
the  whisper,  but  he  stood  motionless,  looking  down  at 
her,  while  the  solemn  ticking  of  the  old  clock  swung 
slowly  through  the  still  room.  For  the  first  time  he  coulcf 
see  the  child  with  wistfully  pleased  eyes,  as  they  were 
that  early  spring  day  when  she  said,  "How  happy  you 
look,  father!"  She  had  reflected  his  moods  like  a  sensi- 
tive little  barometer,  and  now 

"You  will  make  your  peace  with  her ?"  June's 

eyes  were  holding  him,  pleading,  compelling.  "You  will 
let  your  intelligence  and  your  heart  speak?  You  will 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  307 

not  yield  to  a  morbid  superstition — a  sick  imagination? 
You  will  be  your  own  strong  self,  worthy  of  the  heart 

of  gold  that  loved  you — that  still  loves  you !  Helen 

loves  you,  John  Orth !" 

Her  voice  broke,  and  where  the  flame  of  anger  had 
been  in  the  eyes  raised  to  his,  he  saw  the  slow  tears 
come. 

He  did  not  speak,  but  the  hand  she  held  turned,  and 
the  fingers  closed  around  her  wrist.  And  after  a  long 
pause  she  whispered,  with  a  little  sobbing  breath :  "John 
Orth!  John  Orth!" 

Then  her  head  sank  till  her  lips  rested  on  his  hand 
where  it  held  hers,  wrist  against  wrist.  And  when  she 
raised  her  head  she  saw  in  his  eyes  the  troubled  pain 
that,  after  awhile,  brings  peace. 

Slowly  the  clasped  hands  fell  apart  and  in  silence  he 
turned  and  went  out  into  the  night. 

Mr.  Ferriss  had  slept  and  wakened,  and  saw  the  light 
still  burning  in  the  living  room. 

"Is  all  well,  June  child?"  he  called  drowsily. 

In  the  shadowy  room  June's  eyes  shone  mistily.  From 
where  she  sat  at  the  desk  she  could  look  out  of  the 
casement  window  and  see  storm  clouds,  silver  and  black, 
and  through  a  rift,  the  high,  silver  gleam  of  a  star.  And 
with  her  eyes  on  the  star,  she  answered  him  softly :  "All 
is  well,  Jimmy  Ferriss !" 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FOUR 

BLESS  the  changing  seasons!"  Dr.  Kate  Stanley  re- 
marked piously  one  evening,  as  she  blithely  opened 
the  door  of  the  cabin  and  knocked  afterward.  "That 
flicker  of  firelight  through  your  leaded  window,  with  the 
harvest  moon  just  over  your  squatty  roof,  is  a  picture, 
Jimmy!  I  picked  up  Dr.  Orth  as  I  passed  the  hospital 
and  brought  him  with  me.  Is  that  cider  pickled  or 
fermented  or  whatever  it  has  to  do  to  itself,  June?  Be- 
cause 'the  frost  is  on  the  pumpkin  and  the  something's  on 
the  rye,'  a  night  like  this,  and  one  should  have  cider  and 
doughnuts  to  conform  to  the  eternal  fitness  of  things." 

A  shriek  of  joyous  welcome  heralded  the  approach  of 
Peter  Pan,  and  that  gentleman  precipitated  himself  upon 
each  of  the  guests  in  turn.  The  surgeon  stood  him  on  his 
head,  to  his  great  glee,  and  then  anxiously  counted  the 
small  limbs'  that  were  waving  wind-mill  fashion  in  the 
air. 

"I  am  sure  you  have  more  than  the  allotted  number, 
Peter,"  he  said  gravely. 

"Where  ?  Where  ? — show  me !"  shouted  Peter  Pan  de- 
lightedly. 

"Your  son's  ambition  seems  to  point  to  the  role  of 
star  in  a  circus  side-show,"  Dr.  Stanley  informed  June 
as  the  latter  came  in  with  the  doughnuts  and  cider,  Nora 
following  with  glasses.  "He  seems  distinctly  disap- 
pointed because  Dr.  Orth  can  only  find  two  arms  and  two 
legs  on  him,  after  all." 

"Heaven  forfend! — his  boots  cost  more  than  mine 
now,"  laughed  Peter's  mother.  "If  he  had  any  more 

308 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  309 

feet  to  keep  shod  and  hands  to  get  into  mischief,  I  would 
leave  him  on  your  doorstep  in  a  basket." 

"Sure  an'  I  found  sivin  dusty  peraties  in  my  flour 
bin  this  marnin'  an'  the  bath-tub  overflowin'  into  the 
hall  this  afternoon,  and  all  moy  kitchen  knoives  an' 
foorks  sthandin'  in  the  mud  in  the  garden  fer  sojers 
whin  I  stharted  to  get  dinner,"  added  Nora.  "It's  the 
young  terror  he  is,  that  bye!" 

She  scowled  fiercely  at  Peter,  who  promptly  hurtled 
over  against  her  knees  and  demanded,  "Cat's  cradle." 

"I  have  no  toime  fer  foolishness,"  sternly  exclaimed 
Miss  Casey.  "With  me  dishes  waitin'  to  be  washed  an' 
me  bread  to  set.  Goan  wid  ye!" 

She  whirled  out  of  the  room  indignantly  with  Peter 
Pan  hilariously  driving  her  by  her  apron-strings,  and 
a  few  minutes  later  sounds  indicating  "Cat's  cradle"  is- 
sued cheerfully  from  the  kitchen,  while  the  dishes  waited. 

"Spoiled ! — What's  the  use !"  mourned  Dr.  Stanley. 

"Quite  spoiled,"  assented  his  mother  calmly.  "But 
his  theological  course  of  instruction  has  begun,  so  let 
us  not  lose  hope." 

"What  denomination?"  enquired  Dr.  Stanley  with 
lively  interest.  "Peter  as  a  theologian  opens  wondrous 
vistas!  Does  it  point  to  the  priesthood,  do  you  think?" 

"Very  much  so,  from  present  indications.  Miss  Casey 
is  tutoring  him."  June's  eyes  twinkled  at  the  appreciative 
smiles  of  her  auditors.  "To-day  I  decided  to  paddle  him 
after  the  bath-overflow,  and  took  him  into  the  dad's 
room  to  explain  first  that  I  was  not  angry,  but  the  disci- 
pline was  necessary." 

" Old  'hurts  me  worse  than  it  hurts  you'  bromide  1" 

commented  Mr.  Ferriss.  "What  did  Peter  say?" 

"He  sat  on  the  side  of  the  bed  while  I  talked  to  him, 
and  explained  the  damage  to  the  house  and  the  extra 


3io  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

work  for  Nora,  and  all  that.  And  when  I  then  explained 
that  I  felt  that  I  must  punish  him,  as  it  was  my  duty, 
he  looked  at  me  solemnly  and  said,  'But  you  will  be 
wicked  if  you  punish  me,  mother!'  I  was  rather  taken 
back,  but  enquired  respectfully  why  I  would  be  wicked, 
and  was  reproachfully  informed  that  'Jesus  always  for- 
gave His  enemies !' ' 

Delighted  approval  shone  in  the  faces  of  her  audience 
and  Dr.  Orth  commended  Nora.  He  laughed  and  said: 

"Priesthood  or  law — Peter's  masterly  handling  of  a 
difficult  situation  that  held  painful  possibilities  indicates 
conclusively  that  anything  less  than  cope  or  sheepskin 
would  be  unworthy  his  talents.  Nora  is  all  right,  and 
trust  Peter  Pan  to  dodge  unpleasantnesses!" 

"But  what  about  discipline!"  protested  June.  "Of 
course  I  choked  and  fled  to  the  garden.  But  I  cannot 
let  that  round-eyed  little  imp  wriggle  out  of  his  just 
deserts  in  that  fashion.  You  people  spoil  him,  and  no- 
body will  paddle  him  when  he  needs  it.  So  I  must  do  my 
best.  But  if  he  is  going  to  quote  scripture,  what  can  I 
do?  You  can  prove  about  anything  you  like  by  the 
prophets." 

"Well,  Peter  had  you  this  time,  that  is  certain," 
laughed  Dr.  Stanley.  "And  I  wouldn't  worry  about  that 
young  man's  defections.  He  is  going  to  be  clever  enough 
to  get  out  of  the  consequences  of  them,  which  means 
that  he  will  wax  wealthy  and  famous  and  will  some  day 
donate  a  fountain  to  the  future  city  of  Ferncliff." 

The  two  men  smoked  and  talked  comfortably  in  front 
of  the  flaming  logs  the  cool  evening  gave  an  excuse  for, 
while  Dr.  Stanley  went  off  with  June  to  superintend  the 
putting  to  bed  of  young  Ferriss. 

"June  Ferriss,  I  would  like  to  shake  that  doctor  man !" 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  311 

said  Dr.  Stanley  when  they  were  in  the  bedroom.  "He 
had  been  slaving  in  the  laboratory  where  he  had  a  cold 
lunch  instead  of  going  home  to  a  hot  dinner,  and  he 
looked  like  his  own  ghost  when  I  met  him  coming  out 
of  the  hospital.  If  he  doesn't  put  that  unfortunate 
woman  in  a  retreat  and  get  his  own  grip  back,  he  is 
going  to  die,  and  soon.  That  is  plain." 

June  bent  low  over  the  boy,  while  she  unfastened 
buttons  and  buckles,  and  did  not  reply.  The  doctor 
wandered  over  to  the  dressing  table  where  she  paused 
and  stabbed  a  nail  file  viciously  into  the  various  articles 
scattered  over  it. 

"You  know  this  high  altitude  business  is  all  right  in 
books,  but  in  real  life  it  is  rank  nonsense.  We  are  just 
every-day  mortals  and  we  have  our  common  every-day 
work  to  do,  and  there  is  no  use  trying  to  make  ourselves 
into  angels  at  the  present  stage  of  the  game.  That  Orth 
man  hasn't  any  of  the  redeeming  vices,  and  his  virtues 
are  the  kind  you  die  with.  He  is  married  to  a  vehicle 
that  carries  one  hundred  per  cent  of  morphia-saturated 
flesh.  There  is  neither  brain  nor  spirit  nor  womanhood 
left,  if  there  ever  was  any,  which  I  doubt.  And  his 
narrow-visioned,  pious,  hide-bound  ancestors  are  camping 
on  his  trail  and  are  keeping  him  gagged  and  blind  and 
chained  to  their  horrible  old  beliefs,  that  were  as  cruel 
as  the  practices  of  Choctaw  Indians!" 

The  nail  file  was  pitched  disgustedly  back  on  its  tray 
and  the  speaker  began  pacing  up  and  down  the  room 
with  her  hands  rammed  into  her  coat  pockets.  June 
was  sitting  on  the  floor  with  her  back  to  the  light,  while 
she  removed  sandals  and  socks,  and  her  voice  was  un- 
even as  she  bent  over  a  stubborn  little  buckle. 

"What  can  we  do?    One  may  not  say  anything.     It 


312  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

would  be  execrable  taste  in  the  first  place,  and  he  would 
doubtless  resent  it  as  an  impertinence  in  the  second." 

"Oh,  sure! — sure,  Mike!"  The  doctor's  ill  temper 
found  voice  in  withering  slang.  "Of  course  it  would 
be  bad  taste,  and  we  are  so  scared  to  death  we  might 
fall  foul  of  the  latest  thing  in  etiquette,  we  scurry  to 
cover  like  rabbits.  And  we  are  so  afraid  that  a  mentally 
sick  man  might  take  umbrage  at  a  friend's  interference, 
we  hug  our  knees  and  sigh  like  furnaces  and  watch  him 
get  ready  to  snuff  out!  We  and  our  diffidence  and  our 
scariness  make  me  sick !  Our  culture  lets  a  man  drown 
because  we  haven't  been  introduced,  and  the  man's  deli- 
cate sensibilities  might  be  shocked.  Oh,  Lord  1" 

The  child  was  stretched  across  his  cot-bed  crooning  to 
himself  drowsily,  and  his  mother,  still  on  the  floor,  chafed 
the  soft  little  feet  gently  between  her  hands. 

"We  are  cowards,  Kate — that  is  what  our  good  breed- 
ing brings  us  to !" 

"Yes,  non-interference  is  good  taste — and  safe!"  re- 
plied the  doctor  with  grim  irony.  "And  meanwhile  that 
man  out  there  is  headed  for  his  final  little  'Now-I-lay-me' 
because  nobody  has  the  nerve  to  tell  him  that,  while  he 
may  be  a  wonder  generally,  one  lobe  of  his  brain  is 
dippy." 

"Dr.  Goethe ?" 

"Oh,  Carl  has  done  what  he  could,  of  course,"  said  the 
doctor  impatiently.  "He  wants  him  to  go  away  for  a 
month,  and  he  has  argufied  all  that  he  knows  how.  But 
it  rolls  off  that  sublime  stoic  like  water  off  a  duck's  back. 
He  isn't  interested  in  his  practice.  Helen's  death  was  a 
hideous  shock,  and  now  the  long  life  of  soul-starvation  is 
getting  in  its  final  work.  That  worse  than  empty  house 
with  that  ghastly  creature  mooning  around  snipping  her 
hair,  is  too  much  for  even  his  Puritan-granite  constitu- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  313 

tion.  And  he  only  saves  himself  from  growing  com- 
pletely dippy  by  not  being  interested  in  anything.  And 
that  is  the  sign-post  to  the  crematorium." 

Kneeling  by  the  cot,  June  Ferriss  drew  the  clothes  over 
the  boy,  now  fast  asleep,  and  put  her  face  down  in  the 
warm  little  neck.  Iron  fingers  were  clutched  around 
her  heart,  and  in  the  fragrant  warmth  of  the  child's 
shoulder  she  was  battling  desperately  with  the  sick  fear 
that  sent  picture  after  picture  in  lightning  flashes  through 
her  mind. 

It  was  a  fear  that  kept  with  her  daily,  hourly,  but  to 
have  it  voiced  so  pitilessly  by  those  around  her  in  their 
all-unconscious  cruelty,  was  torture.  She  had  to  school 
herself  to  just  the  expected  degree  of  affectionate  anxiety 
— no  less,  no  more.  And  the  effort,  when  the  sick  man 
was  under  discussion  by  his  worried  and  devoted  inti- 
mates, was  sometimes  almost  beyond  endurance. 

Now  she  pulled  herself  heavily  to  her  feet  and  turned 
a  calm  face  to  the  physician's  keen  eyes. 

"And  you  are  no  Phoebus,  daughter  of  the  Sun,  your- 
self," was  that  lady's  caustic  comment.  "You  are  work- 
ing like  a  plough-horse  and  look  fagged  to  death.  I 
really  cannot  understand  why  perfectly  inoffensive  per- 
sons like  myself  must  be  afflicted  by  people  we  grow 
just  enough  interested  in,  to  have  them  pester  us  into 
nervous  prostration!  I'd  like  to  put  you  two  into  a 
crate  and  ship  you  to  Hawaii  for  the  good  of  my  own 
health." 

She  led  the  way  scowlingly  back  to  the  living  room 
and  crossly  informed  Mr.  Ferriss  that  it  was  time  he 
went  to  bed. 

"Dr.  Orth  knows  it  is,  and  you  have  both  talked  long 
enough,"  she  added  as  the  patient  sighed  resignedly, 


314  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

nodded  to  his  physician  with  a  whimsical  wink,  and 
retired  to  his  own  room. 

"And  I'm  going  to  cut  through  the  back  yard  to  see 
a  patient  on  the  next  street.  Good-night,  you  two !" 

She  looked  at  Dr.  Orth  from  under  frowning  brows, 
shook  her  head  dubiously,  then  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  departed. 

June  was  sitting  on  the  arm  of  a  big  leather  chair, 
leaning  against  its  back  with  her  chin  resting  on  her 
clasped  hands.  She  was  staring  into  the  fire,  and  the 
old  clock  ticked  solemnly  for  some  time  while  Dr.  Orth 
smoked  and  the  flames  played  in  rose  and  purple  plumes 
over  the  logs. 

The  first  wind  of  fall  was  complaining  around  the 
casement  windows  and  the  seed-pods  of  the  clustering 
vines  thumped  with  firm  little  fingers  against  the  pane. 
The  room,  with  its  low,  open  book-shelves,  its  pictures 
that  had  each  a  meaning,  its  soft  gleam  of  brass  and 
glow  of  crimson  from  clusters  of  bitter-sweet,  was  very 
restful  in  the  subdued  lamp  and  firelight.  The  aromatic 
breath  of  the  pine  logs  blended  pleasantly  with  the  aroma 
of  the  cigar,  and  Dr.  Orth's  gaze  followed  the  silver 
smoke  as  it  drifted  slowly  away,  to  be  drawn  in  nebulous 
ribbons  up  the  chimney. 

The  long  silences  they  both  were  given  to,  held  the 
two  now  in  quiet  content  while  they  watched  the  fire. 
The  little  noises  of  the  night  circled  around  them,  hold- 
ing them  with  the  intimate  charm  of  their  mysterious 
whisperings.  The  world's  need  of  small  talk  they  did 
not  need.  They  were  looking  into  the  wavering  flames 
with  thoughtful  eyes,  but  their  spirits  were  out  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  wind,  seeking  beyond  life  the  meaning 
of  life,  reaching  to  the  worlds  that  swam  as  silver  motes 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  315 

across  the  firmament — trying  to  reconcile  the  immensity 
of  things  with  their  pain  and  pettiness. 

Presently  the  whirring  of  wheels  in  the  old  clock  was 
followed  by  the  soft,  throaty  strokes  of  its  gong,  and 
as  the  echoes  died  away,  the  surgeon  dropped  his  cigar 
into  the  fire  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

June  lifted  her  head  and  faced  him,  the  restful  dream- 
ing in  her  eyes  driven  out  by  the  strained  watching 
that  shadowed  them  habitually. 

"Carl  Goethe  says  he  wants  you  to  go  away  for  a 
month,  and  you  won't.  Why?" 

She  spoke  quietly,  but  a  little  pulse  at  her  throat 
fluttered. 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  tiredly  contemplative  gaze 
that  seemed  to  chill  all  argument  and  leave  it  trite  and 
commonplace,  and  her  interlaced  fingers  tightened  as  she 
steeled  herself  to  resist  its  numbing  influence. 

"Why  should  I?" 

The  question  was  uninterested  and  she  searched  his 
face,  grimly  calm  in  the  dim  light,  while  she  answered 
him. 

"Why?  Because  if  you  are  to  go  on  living  it  will  be 
necessary  for  you  to  go  away — alone — to  the  coast,  some- 
where, anywhere,  where  it  will  be  different,  where  you  can 
forget  this  place,  your  work  and  your  cares,  and  give 
yourself  and  Nature  a  chance  to  readjust.  All  life  is  out 
of  tune  with  you.  That  is  not  normal,  nor  natural.  Your 
people  here  need  you.  They  trust  you  and  they  lean  on 
you.  Your  life  does  not  mean  just  yourself.  It  means 
countless  other  lives,  and  the  lives  they  in  turn  influence. 
You  are  letting  yourself  go  because  of  one  duty  that  you 
use  to  fill  your  horizon  with.  That  is  not — honest." 

Her  voice,  low,  steady,  probed  mercilessly  into  the 
truth  of  things,  but  he  listened  with  grave  attention. 


316  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"If  I  assume  an  obligation,  I  must  abide  by  it.  People 
have  no  right  to  shirk  a  duty  just  because  they  have  made 
a  mistake." 

"People  have  a  right  to  consider  the  broad  meaning 
of  the  word  duty,"  she  protested.  "It  isn't  your  duty 
to  stay  here  and  die.  It  is  your  duty  to  do  the  necessary 
things  to  prolong  your  life  and  to  help  those  who  need 
help.  You  are  not  stupid!  Analyse  your  own  motives. 
Weigh  your  worth  to  one  negative  duty,  and  then  to  the 
other  countless  claims  that  are  all  around  you.  Will 
you?" 

She  had  burned  her  bridges! — and  the  little  pulse 
in  her  throat  beat  chokingly  as  she  tried  to  read  in  the 
coldly  unresponsive  eyes  something  that  would  indicate 
what  it  had  cost  her.  But  he  only  said  quietly: — "I'll 
see." 

She  thrust  the  hair  back  from  her  temples  with  a 
weary  gesture,  then  with  a  sigh  and  smile,  dropped  her 
left  hand  to  the  clasp  of  his.  The  clasp  was  wrist 
and  wrist,  and  she  glanced  down,  and  then  back  to  his 
face. 

'  'Wrist  and  wrist' — it  is  the  gymnast's  grip,  where 
lives  hang  on  its  firmness,"  she  said  slowly.  Then  with 
the  finger  tips  of  her  right  hand,  she  traced  lightly  the 
back  of  his  hand  and  fingers.  "The  hand  that  holds 

lives !  Be  careful  that  it  does  not  let  them  go,  and 

that  its  strength  is  merciful,  monseigneur!" 


CHAPTER  FORTY-FIVE 

AFTER  he  had  gone,  she  finished  a  chapter  of  trans- 
lations to  be  sent  him  the  next  morning,  then  she 
wrote  far  into  the  night  and  enclosed  the  closely  written 
sheets  with  the  MSS. 

We  "must  abide  by  our  mistakes — !" 

Man  of  walls  and  forms  and  creeds,  of  inflexible  will 
and  inexorable  purpose,  of  cold,  grey  laws  and  unyielding 
codes, — scrupulously  just  in  the  pound  of  flesh,  and  of 
adamant  indifference  to  the  slow,  red  drops  that  drip 
and  sear  and  scar — splendidly  honest  and  splendidly  in- 
different to  the  consequences  of  honesty,  be  they  for 
weal  or  woe — I  wonder — I  wonder ! 

Do  you  suppose  there  is  any  wrongness  in  your  right- 
ness?  The  poor  ninety-eight  per  cent,  hungers  for 
Egypt's  fleshpots — it  is  human  and  wants  human  food. 
It  is  cold  and  wants  to  be  warmed.  It  is  lonely  and 
wants  to  be  comforted.  It  is  footsore  and  wants  the 
sustaining  arm.  It  is  heart-sick  and  wants  love  and  un- 
derstanding. It  wants — and  wants — as  the  child  wants, 
because  it  is  only  a  child  crying  in  the  dark. 

"If  they  mistake  let  them  suffer" Ah,  you  dread- 
ful good  people!  Why,  all  life  is  a  series  of  mistakes. 
And  death  is  a  mistake  in  that  it  lags  so  in  the  coming. 
And  every  breath  and  every  day  brings  its  suffering — < 
it  is  inevitable  and  unceasing.  Your  kind  who  lift  high 
the  Mosaic  code,  mount  a  huge  bronze  Conscience  on  an 
altar  between  your  eyes  and  the  sun,  and  then  swear  that 
warmth  is  sin  because  you  like  the  fog  and  the  cold,  Your 

317 


318  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

kind  sacrifice  to  the  bronze  god  with  the  same  enthusiasm 
that  the  flagellant  uses  his  whips.  There  is  a  fine  and 
fastidious  satisfaction  in  crucifying  the  flesh.  But  it 
isn't  morals,  dear  monseigneur!  It  is  merely  ethical 
epicureanism. 

"Intellectuals"  owe  much  to  their  good  taste.  Fear 
restrains  the  ignorant,  but  intelligence  rejects  that  which 
offends  in  morals  for  the  same  reason  that  it  is  critical 
about  its  linen.  That,  however,  is  but  the  outcome  of 
good  breeding  and  not  necessarily  the  indication  of  a 
Chosen  People — a  people  "after  God's  own  heart." 

Like  the  angels  who  saved  "Little  Breeches"  instead  of 
"loafing  around  the  throne,"  a  conscience  content  to  walk 
among  the  blundering  and  suffering  ninety-eight  and 
ease  their  bonds,  would  be  much  closer  to  my  own  humbly 
human  deity  than  that  chill  brown  Brahma  of  yours. 

Do  you  never  relent,  monseigneur?  Do  you  never 
weary  of  those  inaccessible  heights  ?  You  "hold  back  the 
sea"  it  is  true — but  you  thrust  back,  too,  the  weaker 
ninety-eight,  forgetting  that  the  crag  is  one,  the  birds 
many.  You  are  so  positive,  and  you  offer  these  poor 
things  your  ten  commandments  to  apply  as  an  ice  com- 
press to  a  condition  with  ten  hundred  phases.  To  their 
hunger  you  give  the  stone  of  your  own  asceticism,  to 
their  thirst  you  give  the  dry  gourd  of  endurance  and 
denial. 

And  all  the  while  your  God  is  draping  the  earth  with 
loveliness  and  warmth  and  colour — is  opening  the 
Heavens  from  which  descends  the  passion  song  of  the 
nightingale — the  scarlet  and  gold  of  wooing  butterflies — • 
the  perfume  of  magnolia  and  jasmine. 

Why,  Eminence? 

As  an  exquisite  refinement  of  cruelty,  do  you  think? 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  319 

To  drive  in  the  ache,  with  super-cunning,  to  hearts  hu- 
man and  sore? 

I  do  not  think  so!  We  are  the  poles  asunder,  you 
and  I.  You  have  suffered  for  your  stone  gods  and  their 
brutal  feet  are  red  with  the  years  you  have  laid,  one  by 
one,  before  them.  And  I  have  suffered — and  I  have  stood 
alone  at  times  while  your  gods  rumbled  malediction  and 
threat.  But  fear  has  passed  me  by — 'and  down  the  hill 
and  through  the  wood,  the  new  gods  are  coming.  And 
their  eyes  are  tender  and  their  lips  laugh  and  they  bear 
garlands. 

Do  you  never  relent,  monseigneur?  Do  you  never 
weary  of  the  heights  ? 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SIX 

r  I^HE  series  of  Dan  Cupid  sketches  were  running  into 
•••  little  stinging  cartoons  that  were  catching  the  pub- 
lic's eye  and  bringing  a  response.  The  anti-child  labour 
workers  were  enthusiastic  in  their  gratitude  to  the  artist 
and  the  syndicate  whose  wide  area  of  service  reached  so 
far  and  helped  their  cause  so  wonderfully. 

Capital,  however,  was  not  idle  and  its  scouts  quickly 
drew  the  attention  of  the  chiefs  to  this  dangerous  element 
that  was  rousing  the  sympathies  and  activities  of  the 
people.  June  had  caught  a  flagrant  bit  of  law-dodging 
that  had  been  winked  at  by  the  assistant  prosecuting 
attorney,  and  had  pricked  that  gentleman  with  a  satire 
that  was  illuminating.  The  powers  behind  her  were 
still  strong  enough  to  back  her  up,  but  certain  ominous 
vibrations  that  reached  her  indicated  that  the  heavy 
subterranean  machinery  of  state  politics  was  in  motion 
and  that  she  was  a  grain  of  dust  that  its  iron  jaws 
awaited. 

The  Prosecuting  Attorney  himself  was  not  particularly 
disturbed  by  the  bit  of  convenient  good-nature  evinced 
by  his  colleague  in  the  comparatively  unimportant  law- 
suit in  question,  but  he  had  a  speculative  eye  on  the  Guber- 
natorial chair,  and  in  politics  not  even  the  slipper  of 
a  Cinderella  may  be  permitted  to  endanger  the  smooth- 
running  wheels  by  a  possible  "Sabotin." 

And  it  was  deemed  advisable  to  pluck  out  the  little 
wooden  shoes. 

So  one  day  the  Senator  arranged  to  escort  June  to  the 
Prosecuting  Attorney's  chambers  in  the  City  Hall.  That 

320 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  321 

august  person  and  two  other  gentlemen  who  were  per- 
sonally interested  in  the  politics  of  the  State,  awaited 
them. 

June  acknowledged  their  salutations  with  grave  cour- 
tesy and  accepted  the  arm-chair  offered  her.  The  gentle- 
men then  resumed  their  own  seats,  and  the  Prosecutor 
thanked  her  for  acceding  to  his  request  for  an  inter- 
view. Then,  following  a  slight  pause  surcharged  with 
significance,  he  touched  upon  her  attacks  upon  his  office. 

He  regretted  exceedingly  that  she  had  been  misin- 
formed and  thus  led  into  making  a  pictorial  accusation 
that  was  untrue,  but  he  was  willing  to  overlook  it,  as 
she  was  a  woman  and  harsh  measures  were  to  be  de- 
plored !  So  all  he  would  request  was  a  written  statement 
that  she  was  in  error,  which  the  gentlemen  present  would 
witness,  and  he  would  agree  to  take  no  further  action 
in  the  matter. 

As  the  smoothly  polished  sentences  closed  with  a  hap- 
pily phrased  blending  of  gentle  reproof  and  magnanimous 
forgiveness,  the  gentlemen  present  stirred  and  exchanged 
glances  of  admiring  approbation.  What,  indeed,  could 
be  fairer,  broader,  kinder  than  that? 

And  with  one  accord  they  turned  and  looked  expec- 
tantly at  June.  The  great  desk  in  the  centre  of  the 
imposing  apartment  bore  pen,  ink  and  paper,  and  before 
it,  the  mahogany  chair  of  the  official  himself  was  swung 
invitingly  her  way.  It  would  take  but  a  moment  and  an 
unfortunate  little  blunder  would  be,  in  part,  atoned,  and 
the  incident  closed  and  charitably  forgotten.  She  pre- 
ferred a  stub  pen,  of  course?  Most  writers  did!  And 
now  if  she  would  be  so  good ! 

"But,  you  see,  gentlemen,  I  was  not  misinformed,"  said 
Miss  Ferriss  quietly.  There  was  a  sudden  silence  and 
the  gentlemen  carefully  avoided  each  other's  eyes.  They 


322  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

waited  for  their  guest  to  go  on — to  elaborate,  while  they 
rearranged  their  disordered  tactics.  But  Miss  Ferriss  did 
not  go  on.  She  waited  with  courteous,  but  obvious,  pa- 
tience for  anything  further  they  might  have  to  say. 

This  was  disconcerting  and  annoying.  It  is  diffi- 
cult for  even  a  trained  diplomat  to  "place"  a  person 
who  is  silent. 

"Your  information  came  from ?"  The  Prosecut- 
ing Attorney  at  last  suggested  gently,  and  Miss  Ferriss 
finished  the  sentence  as  gently:  " — An  authoritative 
source — yes." 

.  The  gentlemen  sighed  and  one  absently  reached  into 
his  pocket  for  a  cigar  and,  with  another  sigh,  put  it 
back  again. 

"You  wish  us  to  understand  that  you  take  advantage 
of  your  sex  in  attacking  my  office,  knowing  that  we 
cannot  fight  a  woman?" 

The  voice  of  the  official  hardened  and  June's  eye- 
brows lifted  just  a  shade. 

"I  hardly  think  it  necessary  to  remind  the  Prosecuting 
Attorney  that  the  publication,  not  the  writer,  is  respon- 
sible for  its  matter,"  she  replied  evenly.  "Sex  does  not 
enter  into  the  question." 

One  of  the  gentlemen  cleared  his  throat  uneasily,  but 
the  official  leaning  a  little  forward  with  his  shrewdly 
penetrating  eyes  on  June's  face,  said  with  a  dignified 
simplicity  that  was  impressive:  "Miss  Ferriss,  if  I  give 
you  my  word  that  your  attack  upon  me  is  unwarranted, 
will  you  retract  it?" 

She  bent  her  head  gravely  and  the  atmosphere  cleared 
as  though  by  magic. 

"Where  it  reflects  upon  you,  yes,"  she  said.  "It  is 
your  associate  who  is  in  fault." 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  323 

Dismay  again  darkened  the  room.  They  were  back 
where  they  began! 

"That  will  not  do!  I  am  responsible  for  my  office," 
said  the  Prosecuting  Attorney  sternly. 

June's  eyebrows  again  lifted  a  shade,  and  again  she 
bent  her  head  gravely. 

"As  you  please,  of  course !" 

She  spoke  with  courteous  indifference,  and  the  man 
facing  her  compressed  his  lips. 

"I  gave  you  my  word  that  the  attack  was  unwarranted, 
Miss  Ferriss!"  he  repeated,  the  sternness  in  his  tones 
now  having  a  steel-like  quality  that  gave  evidence  of  the 
secret  of  his  power  of  leadership — a  power  that  was  yet 
to  carry  him  far  and  high. 

"Or  so  you  believe,"  she  replied,  meeting  the  cold 
anger  in  his  eyes  with  quiet  interest.  "My  evidence  is 
beyond  question,  Mr.  Courtnay." 

"But  my  office  is  myself !" 

"Unfortunately,"  she  assented. 

It  was  evening  when  June  Ferriss  and  the  worried 
Senator  Keith  crossed  the  pavement  to  his  waiting  motor. 
For  over  three  hours  the  state  official  and  his  associates 
had  explained  and  suggested  and  argued,  while  back 
of  their  courtesy  mumbled  audibly  the  mighty  grinding 
of  the  machine.  For  over  three  hours  June  Ferriss  had 
declined  and  countered  and  evaded.  In  her  presence 
police  officials,  court  officials  and  newspaper  men  were 
called  up  on  the  phone  and  cross  examined.  Some  of 
these  were  safe.  From  others  she  had  received  clues  and 
"tips"  and  her  breath  came  unevenly  while  the  sharp 
and  confusing  questions  were  hurled  at  them  through 
the  transmitter  by  the  high  official. 

Not  for  a  moment  was  she  free  from  the  keen,  watch- 


324  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

ful  eyes  of  the  powerful  manipulators  of  the  State's  men 
and  affairs,  and  not  for  a  moment  had  she  permitted 
a  shade  of  emotion  to  cross  her  face  while  the  network  of 
wires  that  spread  over  the  City  was  used  as  a  web  to 
entrap,  if  possible,  her  informants. 

At  the  "Lion  d'Or,"  a  four-minute  spin  from  the 
City  Hall,  the  Senator  ordered  dinner.  The  head  waiter 
had  obligingly  placed  them  at  a  retired  table,  remote 
from  the  crowd  and  music,  and  June  dropped  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

"I  only  want  coffee,  Bob — my  head  is  aching  and  I  am 
not  hungry." 

"All  right,  girl.  A  bottle  of  Amontillado  and  a  dozen 
blue-points,  Harris,"  the  Senator  said,  and  turned  his 
attention  to  the  headlines  of  the  evening  paper. 

When  the  order  came,  he  poured  out  the  sherry  and 
said  briskly:  "Now  then,  young  person!  Drink  this!" 

She  lifted  her  head  with  an  effort  and  smiled  wanly. 
Then  she  obediently  drank  the  wine.  Her  companion 
was  busy  with  the  horse-radish,  and  as  she  set  down  her 
glass  he  balanced  a  small,  well-garnished  oyster  on  his 
fork  and  imperatively  bade  her  "open  her  mouth."  Her 
weak  protest  was  ferociously  scowled  into  silence,  and 
she  was  carefully  fed  six  of  the  oysters. 

"Good  child!"  he  commented.  "Now  I  will  finish  the 
order — some  bird- feed  for  you — and  we'll  talk.  You 
will  be  able  to  eat  something  after  that  horse-radish 
warms  your  ickle  tummy." 

She  dropped  her  aching  head  back  on  her  hands  as 
he  turned  to  finish  his  instructions  to  the  waiter.  When 
that  worthy  had  departed,  he  drew  a  note  from  his 
pocket,  opened  it,  and  laid  it  on  the  cloth  between  her 
arms.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  read : 

"For  Heaven's  sake  be  sensible  and  think  of  your  own 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  325 

responsibilities  a  bit !  Bob  says  you  are  getting  into  some 
kind  of  trouble  over  your  child-labour  things.  Drop 
them!  What  need  you  care?  Those  ungrateful  little 
mill  wretches  won't  thank  you,  and  the  parents  want 
their  money,  so  they  won't  thank  you!  And  who  will? — • 
And  who  of  those  same  people  would  lift  a  hand  to 
fight  your  battles  for  you  ?  Leave  all  that  to  people  who 
have  the  time  and  strength  for  it,  and  do  as  Bob  will 
advise  you.  You  know  that  you  can  trust  to  his  judg- 
ment! Be  sensible,  June  child!"  The  note  was  signed 
"T.  K." 

As  she  looked  down  between  her  hands,  the  sentences 
swam  back  and  forth  through  little  rings  of  fire.  She 
was  fagged  out,  and  the  old  auger  of  pain  was  boring 
stubbornly  into  her  side.  It  was  the  reaction  after  the 
long  strain  while  she  matched  wills  with  those  courteous, 
shrewdly  relentless  men,  and  it  seemed  as  though  it  had 
drained  every  drop  of  strength  and  courage  out  of  her, 
and  that  she  was  too  ill  to  care  how  things  ever  went 
again. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  June."  The  Senator's  voice,  practical 
and  reassuring,  took  up  her  train  of  thought.  "You  are 
up  against  the  Machine  and  you  can't  buck  the  Machine, 
my  dear !  You  wouldn't  last  a  minute.  They  want  you 
to  just  quietly  drop  out  of  the  fight,  and  it  will  be  all 
right.  If  you  don't,  bigger  wires  will  be  pulled  and  your 
papers  will  have  to  hedge.  Your  little  wooden  shoe 
has  begun  to  make  trouble — has  made  trouble — 'but  the 
Machine  always  beats  in  the  end.  You  can't  stop  it." 

The  waiter  had  returned,  and  June  lifted  her  head 
heavily  and  let  her  arms  drop  into  her  lap  while  she 
watched  his  deft  ministrations  with  dull  eyes. 

When  he  had  arranged  the  order  to  his  final  satis- 


326  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

faction,  he  respectfully  melted  into  the  background, 
watchful  but  unobtrusive.  Urged  by  her  host,  June 
made  an  attempt  to  eat  some  of  the  delicate  fare  his 
care  had  selected  for  her,  but  it  was  as  ashes  on  her  lips. 

Senator  Keith,  affluent,  well-groomed,  of  excellent  di- 
gestion and  at  peace  with  himself  and  with  the  world, 
ate  his  dinner  with  frank  appreciation.  He  had  no 
quarrel  with  the  established  order,  and  his  appetite  was 
good. 

"My  perfectly  good  money  wasted,"  he  said  sadly  as 
he  fixed  June's  idly  toying  fork  with  a  disapproving  eye. 
"The  next  time  I  will  take  you  to  Childs' !  I  have  here," 
he  continued  lightly,  "an  envelope.  It  is  from  the  Ma- 
chine. The  Machine  may  be  a  little  rude  in  insisting  upon 
wooden  footwear  being  kept  where  it  belongs,  but  it 
does  business  in  a  business-like  manner.  Your  series  is 
contracted  for  by  your  syndicate.  To  stop  them  would 
be  a  loss.  The  Machine  consequently  buys  the  sketches 
that  were  to  have  been  run.  That  is  only  fair.  And  as 
they  also  brought  you  more  or  less  fame,  the  Machine 
has  multiplied  the  amount  still  due  you  by  twenty." 

He  slipped  the  envelope  carelessly  into  the  small  silver 
bag  on  her  lap,  and  picked  up  his  wine-glass. 

"And  now  you  will  be  sensible,  as  Toots  says,  and 
get  out  of  the  political  game.  N'est  ce  pas?  It  is  a  dirty 
game — we  have  to  admit  that.  It  is  no  place  for  people 
who  look  too  closely  into  the  corners  and  around  the 
seams.  But  we,  who  play  the  game  and  do  not  look  too 
closely,  have  to  take  the  certain  amount  of  bad  because, 
after  all,  it  puts  through  a  still  greater  amount  of  good. 
We  are  not  all  blackguards,  honey!  But  we  have  to 
take  human  nature  as  we  find  it.  And  while  it  is  pretty 
rotten  in  some  respects,  it  squares  up  and  does  the  decent 
thing  in  the  long  run." 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  327 

His  tone  was  comfortingly  casual,  but  the  occasional 
fleeting  glance  at  the  quiet  woman  facing  him,  turning 
and  turning  the  little  glass  with  its  rich  topaz  lights,  was 
the  photographic  glance  of  the  schooled  politician.  And 
he  was  not  surprised  when  she  extracted  the  envelope 
and  slid  it  across  to  his  side  of  the  table. 

"You  do  it  very  well,  Robert!"  She  looked  at  him 
over  the  pretty  candle-lighted  table  with  a  humorous  light- 
ing of  the  eyes.  But  it  died  out  quickly,  leaving  her  face 
looking  haggard  and  white.  "I  didn't  agree  to  market 
my  little  pictures  to  politicians,  you"  know.  So  we  won't 
quarrel  over  rates  yet  awhile." 

"June,  you  are  a  fool!"  Keith  laid  down  his  cigar 
and  leaned  across  the  table.  His  casual  manner  dropped 
from  him,  and  his  serious  tone  was  ominous.  "These  men 
are  not  going  to  let  you  interfere  with  their  business. 
They  have  too  much  at  stake.  You  are  a  menace.  Those 
biting  little  cartoons  flick  them  in  the  raw.  They  are 
stirring  the  Public — and  politicians  don't  want  the  Public 
stirred,  except  when  they  do  it  themselves.  Other  times 
the  Public  sleeps,  while  politics  runs  things.  You  are 
going  to  be  stopped.  It  will  take  longer  to  stop  you 
through  your  syndicate — it  is  acting  a  little  stubbornly 
just  now.  But  it  will  be  harnessed  sooner  or  later.  And 
then  you  will  be  squeezed  out  and  black-balled.  No 
other  service  will  dare  run  your  work.  I  tell  you,  you 
can't  buck  the  Machine!  It  will  grind  you  to  powder." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  faint,  inscrutable  smile  in 
her  haggard  eyes. 

"Finish !"  she  prompted  gently. 

"Well,  you  are  in  the  way,"  he  said  flatly.  "Every 
new  sketch  blocks  the  game.  Every  one  you  still  run 
will  add  to  the  labour  of  the  Machine.  You  can  hold 
out  awhile,  and  it  will  make  a  devil  of  a  lot  of  trouble. 


328  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

But  they  will  get  you,  and  that  means  that  when  they 
do,  they  will  finish  you.  You  are  in  the  way.  You 
can't  afford  it,  June!" 

She  straightened  up  with  a  long,  difficult  sigh  and  drew 
on  her  gloves. 

"You  have  done  your  best,  Bob.  Now  put  me  on  my 
train."  As  he  held  her  coat  and  looked  anxiously  down 
at  her,  she  in  turn  looked  strangely  back  at  him  and  added 
— '"You  don't  understand,  you  see !" 

During  the  short  run  to  Ferncliff  she  sat  with  closed 
eyes.  The  vibration  of  the  train  hurt  her  and  the  com- 
plete exhaustion  pulled  at  her  sick  nerves  cruelly.  And 
she  knew  that  the  time  of  her  influence  was  short.  What 
she  could  still  do  with  her  little  sketches,  she  would 
make  as  strong  as  possible,  but  she  knew  what  power 
was  back  of  the  Machine  and  she  knew  as  well  as  Keith 
how  far  that  power  could  reach. 

She  knew,  also,  what  it  would  mean  when  her  work 
was  black-balled.  She  would  be  able  to  do  certain  lines 
of  commercial  work,  but  that  branch  was  very  poorly 
paid  and  her  income  would  be  sweepingly  reduced. 

As  the  train  swung  smoothly  through  the  darkness,  she 
crouched  in  the  corner  of  the  seat  with  her  throbbing 
head  against  the  cold  window  pane.  Usually  her  courage 
fought  stubbornly  against  obstacles,  but  to-night  she 
felt  woefully  alone  and  adrift.  She  had  faced  so  many 
problems  since  the  care-free  Island  days,  and  at  last 
her  strength  seemed  to  have  ebbed  and  the  new  complica- 
tions that  threatened  bore  down  on  her  spirit,  dark  and 
menacing.  The  fight  had  been  so  long,  the  anxieties  so 
many!  And  now  it  was  to  begin  again,  the  laboured 
struggling  against  contending  forces,  like  a  water-logged 
ship. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  329 

When  she  turned  into  the  lane  that  led  to  the  cabin, 
she  saw  the  soft  glow  of  the  casement  windows  and 
her  throat  contracted  suddenly.  She  would  have  to 
give  it  up,  the  little  cabin  under  the  trees,  and  go  back 
to  the  City,  perhaps.  Commercial  work  did  not  admit 
of  leisurely  methods,  as  a  rule,  and  one  had  to  be  acces- 
sible at  all  times.  And  to  go  back  would  mean — it  would 
mean  leaving  the  people  of  Ferncliff.  It  would  mean 
leaving 

She  paused  at  the  door  and  in  the  darkness  leaned 
her  cheek  against  it.  She  was  so  heart-sick — she  was  so 
deadly  heart-sick! 

When  she  opened  the  door  and  entered,  she  faced 
Dr.  Orth. 

He  had  just  come  from  her  father's  room  and  he 
looked  at  her  curiously  as  she  moved  apathetically 
toward  the  fire-place  and  slowly  took  off  her  coat  and 
hat,  dropping  them  on  a  chair. 

She  avoided  his  eyes  and  sat  down  on  an  ottoman, 
absently  chafing  her  cold  hands  while  she  stared  into 
the  flickering  logs. 

"You  look  very  tired,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  am— yes." 

Her  voice  was  spiritless,  but  she  turned  and  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  shadowy  smile.  "And  so  are  you  tired." 

He  came  over  to  the  fire-place  and  stood  with  his 
arm  stretched  out,  braced  against  the  old-fashioned  man- 
tel as  he  looked  down  at  her. 

"Hadn't  you  better  take  things  a  little  easier  for 
awhile  ?  Let  the  translations  go  for  a  few  evenings  and 
try  early  hours  till  you  are  rested." 

Without  replying,  she  took  his  left  hand  that  hung 
at  his  side,  between  her  own  two,  and  thoughtfully 


33<>  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

smoothed  it  out  on  her  own  left  hand,  while  she  drew 
the  tip  of  her  finger  across  its  palm. 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  a  line  of  compassion  among 
these  hieroglyphics." 

She  lifted  her  heavily  shadowed  eyes  and  looked  at 
him  strangely. 

"You  should  not  do  that !" 

The  always  cold  voice  held  now  reproof,  but  the 
clasp  of  her  fingers  did  not  relax.  "I  know,"  she  said 
indifferently.  "Your  whole  creed  is  made  up  of  'you 
should  not.'  We  should  not  do  this,  that,  and  the  other, 
we  people.  But  I  wonder  if  there  are  not  things  you 
good  people  sometimes  should  do,  and  don't !  Are  there 
not  the  passive  sins — the  'I  have  left  undone  those  things 
which  I  ought  to  have  done'  of  the  litany?  If  you  see  a 
sheep  caught  in  the  bramble  and  having  a  pretty  hard 
time  of  it,  is  it  necessary  to  ask  the  legislature  whether 
it  would  be  a  breach  of  ethics  to  go  over  and  help  it 
out?" 

Her  face  was  dead-white  but  in  her  eyes  smouldered 
the  light  of  pain  and  its  protest. 

"The  work  I  do  for  you — with  you — does  not  tire 
me.  You  know  that.  It  is  the  joy  of  labour,  not  the 
drudgery.  It  has  given  me  the  stimulus  that  has  enabled 
me  to  do  my  other  work  and  make  it  acceptable.  I " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  then  turned  his  hand  to  the 
gymnast's  wrist-hold.  "It  helps  me — and  to-night  I  need 
help.  I  am — I  am  tired."  Her  lips  twitched  and  she 
bit  them  to  steadiness.  In  her  eyes  appeal  came  and 
deepened,  telling  of  long  endurance  giving,  at  last,  to 
the  pressure  of  circumstance.  The  clasped  hands  she 
drew  to  her  breast  and  whispered  desperately:  "Say 
that  you— care!  John  Orth!  John  Orth!" 

For  a  long  moment  the  spirit  that  looked  through  her 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  331 

straining  eyes  beat  against  the  barriers  of  his.  Then  the 
answer  came,  coldly  cruel  as  that  of  Salem  Puritan: 
"I  would  not  say  it  even  to  save  your  soul!" 

Very  gently  her  fingers  unclasped  from  his  wrist, 
and  she  sat  with  the  back  of  her  hand  against  her  lips 
and  her  eyes  closed,  while  the  flames  whispered  and 
chuckled  in  their  play  of  hide-and-seek  among  the  logs. 

He  watched  her  in  his  strangely  impassive  way  and 
at  last  she  looked  at  him,  .without  resentment,  with 
just  the  unprotesting  wonder  of  soul  sickness. 

"It  is  strange,  isn't  it?  I  have  wanted  you  so  long. 
And  now,  to  have  you  as  just  another  form  of  torture — • 
It  is  a — pity,  isn't  it?" 

Her  voice  trailed  through  the  broken  sentences,  then 
she  moved  uncertainly  over  to  her  seat  at  the  desk. 

"You  are  not  going  to  work  any  more  to-night?"  The 
words  were  curt,  the  voice  cold,  and  she  lifted  her  eyes 
to  his  face  and  looked  at  him  with  curious  intentness. 

"No." 

She  did  not  speak  again  as  he  turned  in  his  peculiar 
silent  way  and  left  her.  But  her  gaze,  heavy  with  pain, 
followed  him. 


CHAPTER  FORTY-SEVEN 

THE  next  day  orders  came  from  the  Editor-in-Chief 
of  the  Syndicate  to  crowd  her  child-labour  matter. 
"They  are  after  us,"  he  wrote.  "We  can't  hold  out  long, 
but  work  your  prettiest  while  you  can.  If  you  can  waken 
the  better  element  and  get  them  going,  even  the  Ma- 
chine can't  stop  them." 

One  or  two  of  the  little  story-sketches  that  had  already 
formed  in  her  brain,  she  finished  and  sent  in.  But  some- 
thing was  wrong — the  ideas  after  were  confused  and 
came  draggingly,  and  when  she  tried  to  force  the  work 
it  was  mechanical.  Sketch  and  story  failed  to  "ring 
true." 

"Can't  use  it.  What's  the  matter?  There's  no  'bite.' 
Buck  up,  pardner!" 

He  was  a  good  friend,  this  strenuous,  over-worked 
man  who  sat  at  a  battered  desk  in  a  shabby  office  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  high  over  the  City,  playing  the  great 
newspaper  game.  She  did  not  want  to  fail  him  any  more 
than  she  wanted  to  fail  herself.  But  the  mainspring 
had  snapped  somehow,  and  the  Voices  no  longer  told  her 
things. 

"A  belief  that  hurts  is  wrong,"  John  Orth  had  said 
in  his  slow  inexorable  way.  But  each  moment's  hurt 
seemed  but  another  step  up  the  Sancta  Scala — the  sacred 
stair  of  pain  that  led  to  clearer  sight. 

This  he  read  in  the  next  package  of  translations  that 
came  from  her : 

The  argument  of  a  strong  man  should  be  strong.  Is 
"Expediency  for  the  sake  of  comfort"  this?  To  be  pas- 

332 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  333 

sive,  to  go  with  the  herd,  to  follow  the  path  of  least  re- 
sistance, to  drift  and  be  still — is  not  that  poor  stuff 
to  nourish  a  strong  soul  ? 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  your  paradoxical  qualities  are 
not  perhaps  part  of  the  "plan" — to  drop  acid-fashion  on 
my  own  sight,-  to  clarify  through  pain.  Do  you  not 
see  that  you,  the  Man,  pull  down  the  trim  house  of  cards 
that  you,  the  theorist,  build  so  cleverly?  The  latter  is 
neatly  correct,  a  habitation  fit  for  the  neatly  correct  per- 
sonality. But  the  builder  has  depths  and  heights  that 
loom  as  Pharaoh's  pile  back  of  trumpery  modern  Rome. 
Can  you  close  your  eyes  to  the  absurdity  of  it? 

"A  belief  that  hurts  is  wrong.  It  should  be  weeded 
out."  The  path  that  is  not  popular  is  lonely — so  leave 
it.  It  cannot  be  right ! 

What  of  the  little  prairie  schooner,  dot  of  white  crawl- 
ing toward  the  great  sunset? — the  pathfinder  with  his 
toy  axe,  breasting  uncharted  forests? — the  Columbus  on 
his  chip  of  wood  in  mid-ocean?  The  conservatives  sup- 
port— but  it  is  the  radical  who  first  creates,  monseigneur. 

Because  my  creeds  find  me  with  the  few,  they  are 
false  creeds — Why  is  the  mob  right  ?  Because  they  echo 
through  unbuilded  spaces  that  chill  the  heart,  they  are 
wrong — Have  the  gaunt  mountains  less  authority  than 
the  raucous  rabble  of  the  tenements?  Because  I  refuse 
to  say  that  legality  cleanses  bonds  that  are  of  the  flesh 
only — that  law  can  make  pure  the  impure — that  legisla- 
tion can  make  children  of  love  out  of  those  bred  only 
of  the  body — >I  am  dangerous.  So,  then,  must  be  the 
"plague  squads"  of  England's  army  who  elbow  Death 
when  they  clean  the  coolie  huts. 

Your  creed  creates  nothing.  It  is  a  grey  stone  shaft  in 
a  graveyard.  It  has  neither  roots  to  feed  nor  branches 
to  reach  to  the  stars.  The  arbutus  climbs  up  with  delicate 


334  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

fingers  to  carry  it  something  of  tenderness  and  sweetness 
and  falls  away  blighted  by  its  chill. 

You  have  trained  your  telescope  on  that  one  object  so 
long  you  can  see  nothing  else.  It  has  made  of  you  ice 
and  iron  in  a  world  that  moans  always  for  warmth  and 
pity.  It  has  moulded  your  strength  into  a  Code  of  con- 
crete, against  which  Life  bruises  piteous  hands  that 
plead  for  comfort. 

Your  Master  gave  you  a  talent  and  you  have  buried 
it  in  a  vault.  The  strength  that  could  have  meant  so 
much  is  negative.  You  have  baptised  it  in  the  name  of 
dead  prophets  and  dedicated  it  to  a  moribund  god  and 
made  of  your  brain  and  your  logic  a  Cerberus  to  keep  it 
inviolate.  A  great  Power  that  could  have  moved  and 
moulded  and  made  men  and  affairs,  you  have  perverted 
instead  into  a  hod-carrier  to  build  a  wall  higher  and 
ever  higher  between  yourself  and  your  tuppeny  deity,  and 
the  great  suffering  world  that  weeps  like  a  hurt  child 
for  a  comforter  and  shelter. 

If  of  such  are  the  moral-righteous,  then  the  world 
needs  the  unmoral-tender.  Your  creed  has  made  laws 
that  have  filled  the  imbecile  asylums  and  hospital  wards 
and  prisons.  The  spawn  of  soul  nausea  is  not  the  stuff 
that  men  are  made  of.  Your  narrow  code  breeds  jails 
and  prisoners  to  feed  them — but  it  never  yet  gave  to  the 
world  what  Love  has  given  it  to  make  it  beautiful.  The 
great  women  and  great  men  who  have  given  music  and 
marble  and  picture  and  poem  to  life,  to  lift  it  from  the 
ox-yoke  and  the  furrow,  listened  humbly  when  love 
spoke.  Had  they  not  done  so,  Life  would  have  known 
only  the  Night  Court  and  its  birds  of  darkness — never 
the  Cathedral  with  its  spires  and  doves. 

"By  their  fruits"  is  the  only  gauge.  And  what  have 
you  to  show  ?  A  long  martyrdom — self-immolation — the 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  335 

dumb  patience  of  the  flagellant.  You  have  endured  to 
the  breaking  point  and  beyond.  You  have  crucified  heart 
and  soul  and  brain  and  body.  You  have  hungered  and 
thirsted  and  you  have  starved — all  at  the  feet  of  a  Ma- 
jolica god  that  grinned  at  the  enormity  of  the  sacrifice  and 
the  futility  of  its  aim. 

You  have  given  your  life  to  brace  your  back  against  a 
rotten  wall.  And  it  only  goes  on  crumbling  around 
you.  Your  eyes  are  heavy  with  the  Atlas-burden  of  it 
and  your  lips  grim  with  self-denial — of  the  warmth  they 
have  not  known,  the  words  they  have  repressed,  the 
long,  long  breath  that  beats  up  and  up  to  where  the 
gods  bend  with  soft  laughter  and  tender  eyes,  to  listen. 

All  this  you  have  not  known,  which  means  that  you 
have  not  lived — that  all  effort  has  been  abortive — that 
you  have  strangled  the  divine  in  you  that  was  meant  to 
create  gracious  things  and  silenced  the  soul's  protest 
with  rattling  chains  and  dry  bones. 

You  pride  yourself  on  your  conscience — you!  And 
the  crudest,  elemental  sins  rise  up  against  you — to  lie, 
to  steal,  to  murder.  For  you  perjure  yourself  when 
you  uphold  your  whited  sepulchres  because  you  fear  the 
world  could  not  stand  Truth  in  her  nudeness  and  purity. 
You  have  taken  away  the  Voices — they  had,  through 
you,  begun  to  speak.  In  my  great  relief  I  told  you. 
And  in  immediate  panic  you  cried,  with  Peter,  "I  know 
not  the  man !"  And  so  you  committed  the  third  sin — On 
the  little  messages  that  pleaded  for  utterance — that  per- 
haps soften  a  heart  here,  touch  a  conscience  there — you 
laid  the  heavy  hand  of  silence,  as  you  have  laid  it  on 
your  own  gift,  making  it  cold  and  hard. 

Your  rectitude  that  kills  is  a  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost.  To  it  you  have  nailed  with  steady  hand  the  lives 
you  could  have  helped,  the  hurt  you  could  have  healed. 


336  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

You  were  given  an  exceptional  mind  and  that  wonder- 
ful gift  of  clothing  thoughts  in  words  stately  and  beau- 
tiful— of  marshalling  Life's  chaotic  and  fugitive  ideas 
into  exquisite  order  and  perfection — of  piercing  through 
to  essentials  with  rare,  unerring  touch.  And  all  that 
exotic  growth  you  have  blackened  with  the  ruthless  frost 
of  fanatic  resolve.  I  have  fought  to  save  it — to  give  it 
life — to  make  it  articulate.  Whether  yours  be  the  pen 
or  mine,  what  matter  so  the  work  be  done?  Of  all  the 
created  and  creative  things,  written  words  are  the  most 
potent  and  far  reaching.  They  live  when  the  painting  is 
black,  the  marble  dust,  the  song  forgotten.  Their  power 
is  limitless,  their  work  unending. 

And  this  gift  from  the  Godhead  itself  you  scorn,  as  a 
bigoted  peasant  who  takes  a  wonder-crystal  whose  glint- 
ing colours  picture  all  Life  and  with  it  grinds  his  meal. 
It  is  to  that  in  you  I  have  paid  homage — to  the  brain 
to  think,  the  strength  to  do,  the  power  to  call  my  Voices 
and  make  them  speak,  the  dominion  over  men  and  women 
that  matches  my  dominion  over  them,  the  sovereignty 
of  Mind  that  leads  and  controls  and  shapes  lesser  minds. 
In  this  I  have  called  to  a  peer — in  strength  and  incisive- 
ness  and  poise  to  a  superior.  We  could  create,  as  other 
minds  have  met  and  created,  things  that  would  live  when 
you  with  your  bigotry,  I  with  my  humanness,  are  alike 
dust  and  indifferent.  Where  you  control  by  sheer  intel- 
lect, I  lead  because  I  have  suffered  and  loved  and  under- 
stand. We  could  create,  as  we  have  created,  and  the 
world  be  the  better  for  it. 

But  blind  and  deaf  to  all  but  your  stupid  gods,  you 
lay  the  ban  of  silence  on  all  that  makes  life  worth  while. 
The  non-fulfilment  is  your  privilege  but  it  is  also  your 
Sin.  That  you  debase  gifts  of  power  and  prophecy  is 
an  insolence  to  the  Giver.  You  tear  down  the  Vatican 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  337 

to  pave  an  alley — set  a  Colossus  of  possibility  astride 
a  tinkling  runlet — repudiate  a  gift  of  kings  to  hug  a 
lot  of  old  wives'  tales  in  worm-eaten  binding. 

And  the  message  that  should  have  swept  far  out  on  in- 
spired wings,  falls  instead  like  a  stone  in  a  pool. 

Be  human — the  God  of  the  Christian  found  that  neces- 
sary to  deliver  his  message !  Asceticism  and  a  cell,  mon- 
astic denial — they  are  death,  and  the  world  needs  life. 

What  a  woeful  jest  it  all  is! — the  Power  laid  in  your 
inert  hand,  the  dull  ache  of  unborn  things — the  pain  "as 
the  milk  comes  when  the  babe  is  dead" — the  heartbreak  of 
Pegasus  and  the  dragging  plough — what  a  woeful  jest  it 
all  is! 


CHAPTER  FORTY-EIGHT 

AT  last  a  day  came  when  another  protest  from  her 
Chief  had  enclosed  a  communication  from  the  Anti- 
Child  Labour  League — an  appeal — and  June  Ferriss  read 
both  and  then  sat  at  her  useless  drawing-board  with  her 
face  in  her  hands.  During  Dr.  Orth's  visits  with  Mr. 
Ferriss,  under  the  trees  on  the  little  lawn  or  in  front 
of  the  open  fire,  June  Ferriss  had  crossed  lances  with 
his  masterful  mind  and  the  opposition  and  fencing  with 
his  keen  insight,  his  remarkably  balanced  logic  and  his 
determined  defence  of  his  views,  had  been  a  delight. 

From  the  stubborn  battle  of  wits  she  turned  with  won- 
dering joy  to  the  new  mental  vistas  that  opened  before 
her,  and  this  vitalising  of  her  powers  found  fluent  ex- 
pression in  word-painting  and  sketch,  while  her  influence 
over  the  people  of  the  mill  district  grew  into  almost  un- 
canny strength. 

Life  had  flushed,  warmed,  into  new  and  splendid  radi- 
ance. It  had  flooded  heart  and  brain  with  its  glory  of 
colour  and  out  of  her  abundance  she  reached  out  a  vibrat- 
ing strength  "that  was  a  strength  of  ten"  to  the  weaker 
and  poorer  who,  bewildered  and  astray,  turned  eagerly 
to  her  guidance  and  support. 

It  was  John  Orth's  caustic  wit  that  scintillated  with 
vicious  little  sparks  through  her  attacks  on  the  Machine. 
It  was  his  far  sight  that  reached  with  instant  and  unerring 
precision  to  points  that  slower  minds  laboured  to  by 
degrees.  It  was  the  wonderful,  rare  sweetness  of  the  man 
making  itself  known  in  some  subtle  way  through  the  piti- 
lessly cold  exterior  that  masked  it,  that  lighted  the  little 

338 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  339 

lamp  in  her  soul  that  made  her  work  a  power  felt  even 
through  the  mad  turmoil  of  the  City. 

And  when  the  City  had  shown  its  teeth  and  her  strength 
wavered  and  sank,  it  was  to  him  she  turned  to  still  her 
fright  and  pain.  And  he  had  failed  her. 

A  stern  battle  for  bread  was  again  confronting  her, 
and  memory  spared  her  nothing  of  its  sordid  bitterness. 
For  once — for  the  first  time — utter  weakness  had  en- 
gulfed her  and  she  had  appealed  to  a  stronger  for  com- 
fort. The  fighter  learned  that  she  was  the  woman  as 
well;  that  she,  as  the  primal  woman  and  the  woman 
of  all  the  ages,  must  needs  cry  to  the  greater  soul  that 
was  her  soul's  lord. 

And  he — man,  friend  or  lover,  she  could  not  tell! — 
encased  in  the  baffling  armour  of  his  Puritan  orthodoxy, 
had  thrust  her  back  to  face  her  darkness  alone. 

And  all  in  a  moment  the  thronging  ideas  failed  her 
and  the  Voices  were  silent.  Try  as  she  would,  she  could 
not  recall  them.  Like  a  flock  of  startled  birds,  their 
wings  had  beat  confusedly  around  her  and  then  had 
turned  to  flight.  The  board  waited,  the  clever  pencil 
had  not  forgot  its  cunning,  but  the  inspiration  was  gone. 

That  evening  as  she  sat  at  her  drawing-board  trying  to 
whip  her  numbed  mind  into  action,  the  iron  knocker 
sounded  and  when  she  opened  the  door  the  surgeon  came 
quietly  in. 

He  followed  her  to  the  desk  and  looked  down  at  the 
drawing  critically,  then  his  gaze  travelled  in  its  deliberate 
fashion  to  her  face. 

"Poor  work,"  he  commented  gravely. 

"It  should  please  you!"  she  exclaimed,  a  vibration  of 
despairing  pain  in  her  low  voice,  "I  am  failing  the 


34O  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

children.  But  your  respectability  is  not  endangered, 
which  is  of  much  more  importance,  of  course." 

"Why  should  I  influence  it  one  way  or  another?"  he 
asked  in  a  tone  of  impersonal  interest  in  the  psychology 
of  the  thing. 

She  threw  out  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  protest. 

"Ask  your  God,  who  made  us  of  mind  as  well  as  mat- 
ter. I  am  what  I  am.  I  was  not  consulted  about  the  plan 
nor  my  limitations.  After  your  life  crossed  mine,  my 
life  broadened,  deepened.  My  work  was  not  only  amus- 
ing— it  began  to  say  things.  And  I  was  grateful,  be- 
cause I  was  doing  some  little  good  in  a  world  that  needs 
much.  Why  I  needed  you  to  bring  out  that  ability,  you 
will  have  to  ask  the  Power  that  so  ordained  it.  It  is  your 
privilege  to  confine  your  interest  and  influence  to  the  knife 
and  the  body.  But  there  are  maimed  and  imprisoned  and 
suffering  souls  as  well,  and  your  churches  no  longer 
reach.  The  problem  has  turned  to  the  layman.  And 
every  little  helps — mine  and  yours  make  their  impres- 
sion." 

"But  why  necessarily — 'together?" 

Her  breast  lifted  with  a  long  breath  and  she  did  not 
answer  at  once.  The  reproach  that  smouldered  in  her 
eyes,  heavily  ringed  with  sleeplessness,  faded,  and  she 
turned  and  looked  through  the  small-paned  windows  and 
up  at  the  serene  stars  that  shone  clearly  through  the 
crisp  autumn  night. 

"Why?"  The  shadowy  eyes  were  wistful  as  they 
turned  back  to  his  face.  "Is  not  the  beginning  and  end 
and  meaning  of  all  life  in  that  'together'?  Can  we  do 
much — the  strongest  of  us! — alone?" 

For  a  long  moment  his  strangely  veiled  gaze  searched 
down  into  her  eyes,  and  then  with  quiet  deliberation  he 
laid  his  left  hand  on  hers.  It  turned  slowly,  palm  up- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  341 

ward,  and  the  flexible  fingers  of  surgeon  and  artist  closed, 
wrist  and  wrist. 

She  laid  her  cheek  against  his  coat-sleeve  and  when  she 
raised  her  head  again,  her  eyes  were  wet 

11  Je  vous  dime "  she  slowly  whispered,  a  little 

whimsical  smile  on  lips  that  trembled.  "De  tout  mon 
cccur,  et  de  toute  mon  ame!  Let  me  say  it  in  English! 
You  won't  'send  me  to  Coventry' ! — < — " 

In  his  eyes  and  on  the  stern  lips  there  came  the  slow, 
wonderfully  sweet  smile  that  bound  people  to  him  in 
bewildered  but  unprotesting  subjugation.  It  was  the 
smile  that  those  who  loved  him  watched  for  on  Lincoln's 
wearily  sad  face,  and  at  whose  bidding  they  faced  de- 
struction and  death  gladly. 

The  clasped  wrists  were  held  against  her  breast  closely 
and  the  whisper — low,  unsteady — came  to  him  through 
the  shadowy  stillness :  "I  love  you — with  all  my  heart — 
and  my  soul — beloved ! — beloved ! " 

Under  his  hand  he  felt  the  thick  beating  of  her  heart, 
then  she  lifted  the  palm  against  her  lips  and  held  it  there 
while  the  old  clock  ticked  with  merciful  slowness  Life's 
golden  seconds. 

When  she  lifted  her  head,  her  eyes  were  luminous 
as  they  looked  up  at  him  and  she  said,  with  a  little  tremu- 
lous laugh:  "I  haven't  a  shred  of  pride  left,  and  not 
even  enough  self-respect  to  care.  I  just  'glory  in  ma 
shame,'  like  Scotch  Weelum.  I  know  that  I  have  been 
wanting  you  since  the  beginning  of  time,  through  all  the 
incarnations.  And  that  night  of  the  Exhibit  at  the  Inn,  I 
called  you — John  Orth! — as  I  must  have  called  you 
hundreds  of  years  ago.  You  turned  at  once  and  came 
straight  across  the  room,  and  I  was  not  even  surprised. 
Ah,  my  dear! — how  I  have  wanted  you!" 

With  her  free  hand  she  touched  his  coat-sleeve,  draw- 


342  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

ing  her  sensitive  finger  tips  delicately  down  its  length 
and  loving,  as  women  do  who  love  greatly,  the  rough 
tweed  because  it  was  so  familiarly  a  part  of  him. 

"And  how  abominably  hateful  you  have  been,"  she 
added  resentfully.  "Say  'I  do.' ' 

"I  hav'n't — 1  have  only  tried  to  make  you  behave 
yourself.  1  do'  what?" 

"I  have  behaved!  When  you  have  been  snippy  and 
superior,  I  always  turned  the  other  cheek.  Never  mind 
what !  Just  say  'I  do.'  " 

"But  I  don't  understand "  he  protested,  regarding 

her  with  stern  suspicion. 

"Say  it!" 

"I  do — but  remember,  I  don't  know  what  it  means!" 
he  warned  her  solemnly,  but  with  the  glint  of  boy- 
laughter  she  loved  to  call  to  his  eyes. 

"And  you  do  not  need  to!"  A  long  sigh  lifted  the 
soft  muslin  folds  crossed  over  her  breast  and  she  shook 
her  head  with  grave  reproach.  "If  I  had  the  power  of 
turning  a  soul's  night  into  day,  or  day  to  night,  how 
carefully  I  would  use  it!" 

As  he  picked  up  his  hat,  she  regarded  him  judicially 
and  nodded. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured.  "When  you  are  nice  you  are 
very,  very  nice.  But  when  you  are  horrid,  you  are  really 
the  most  impossible  person !" 

Their  eyes  exchanged  a  little  smile,  then  he  opened 
the  door  in  his  quiet  way.  She  was  leaning  across  the 
board,  her  arms  stretched  out  and  her  hands  clasped 
lightly.  In  the  soft  glow  of  the  lamp  her  eyes  were  brim- 
ming with  the  mirthful  teasing  that  flickers  its  sunlight 
on  the  ripples  over  passion's  fathomless  deeps. 

Her  lips  prompted,  forming  soundlessly  the  words — 
"June,  I  do!" 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  343 

And  it  was  the  Boy  that  laughed  softly  in  reply,  the 
stern  lips  quivering  amusedly  as  they,  too,  formed  care- 
fully and  soundlessly  the  cryptic  words  that  she  clung  to — • 
her  Life's  largesse 

"June,  I  do!" 


CHAPTER  FORTY-NINE 

WITH  keen  delight  June  Ferriss  answered  to  the  on- 
crowding  "urge"  that  kept  her  closely  at  work  as 
the  days  passed.  There  was  a  vital,  exultant  beat  to  her 
pulses  that  sent  the  ideas  swarming  through  her  mind 
and  the  acid  of  stinging  satire  and  gripping  truth  into 
her  finely  pointed  brush.  She  felt  the  faith  of  Holy 
Writ  that  could  move  mountains.  She  felt  the  lust  of  war 
that  was  a  holy  war — that  used  her  and  her  talent  as 
an  obedient  instrument  that  was  for  the  liberation  of  hag- 
gard and  yellow  little  children,  harnessed  to  labour  for 
the  Machine.  The  numbing  exhaustion,  the  pain  that 
sapped  her  courage,  the  crying  out  of  wrenched  nerves — • 
all  this  that  had  turned  like  wolves  on  her  mental  powers 
and  left  her  bankrupt,  vanished.  A  star  had  risen  in  the 
East  and  in  her  eyes  shone  its  glory — a  glory  beyond 
reach  of  a  Machine's  bribe  or  threat. 

"Good  work!"  her  Chief  scrawled.  His  back  was 
against  the  wall.  He  was  now  almost  alone,  as  his  col- 
leagues, one  by  one,  yielded  to  the  inexorable  and  far- 
reaching  tentacles  of  the  political  Monster.  His  jaw  was 
an  ugly  jaw  and  his  eyebrows  beetled,  but  he  knew  that 
he  could  be  whipped  and  he  took  his  last  stand  with  a 
grim  arming  with  every  weapon  that  his  fertile  brain 
could  summon  to  make  that  stand  count  to  its  last  degree. 

In  his  uptown  home  was  a  woman  with  grey  hair  and 
bravely  humorous  eyes,  a  woman  who  was  his  "helpmeet" 
in  the  best  and  broadest  sense.  And  much  farther  out 
the  autumn  leaves  were  sifting  on  a  very  small  grave. 
Which  were  two  of  the  reasons  the  ugly  jaw  settled 

344 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  345 

into  its  fighting  grip,  while  June's  talent  flickered  its 
desperate  heliograph  appeals  across  a  continent  to  waken 
a  sluggish  people  to  its  sins. 

Nearly  three  weeks  had  passed  since  her  conference 
in  the  City  Hall,  when  she  returned  one  day  from  the 
City,  worried  and  depressed. 

"They're  getting  me,  June  Ferriss, — damn  'em !" — the 
words  of  the  fighting  editor  beat  their  ominous  tocsin  on 
the  revolving  wheels  as  the  train  tore  through  the  dusk. 
They  were  getting  him!  And  the  short  time  was  nar- 
rowing down  now,  to  days. 

"They're  getting  him,  Jimmy  Ferriss!"  she  repeated 
as  she  sat  down  and  smiled  woefully  at  her  father  and 
Dr.  Stanley  across  the  dinner  table.  "There  won't  be  a 
home-stretch,  Katrinka.  They  won't  let  us  match  our 
strength  and  speed  with  theirs  in  a  fair  race.  We  are  to 
be  disqualified!" 

James  Ferriss  reached  his  fine,  transparent  hand  across 
and  patted  the  artist  hands  clasped  tensely  where  they 
rested  on  the  table. 

"This  is  a  race  that  is  not  to  the  swift  nor  to  the 
strong,  girl,"  he  said  gravely.  "Your  little  skits  and 
the  Service  have  let  loose  powers  that  will  not  sleep. 
The  great  Human  is  pretty  decent  in  the  final  analysis. 
Once  get  it  awake  and  its  great  foot  can  come  down 
disastrously  on  even  a  Machine.  And  your  gadflies  have 
disturbed  its  slumber  persistently  and  long  enough  to 
make  it  restless  and  inquisitive.  That  has  been  your  part. 
You  cannot  do  more  than  you  can  do.  So  leave  the  rest  to 
the  Fate  that  has  used  you  and  is  now  about  through 
with  you." 

"In  other  words,  give  some  one  else  a  whirl  at  running 
the  Universe,"  added  the  doctor  crisply.  "You  can't 
build  Rome  nor  pull  down  a  legislature  in  a  day,  so  take 


346  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

your  shoulder  away  from  the  wheel  and  try  and  get  your 
breath.  Quite  a  few  wrongs  existed  before  you  came 
into  this  Vale  of  Tears,  and  there  will  be  several  left 
after  you  are  comfortably  cremated.  And  picking  with 
your  fork  isn't  eating — it's  a  poor  bluff  what  don't  de- 
ceive nobody.  Bring  her  some  sherry,  Nora  darlint !" 

June  pulled  herself  together  and  tried  to  laugh,  and 
obediently  drank  the  sherry.  But  she  had  no  knowledge 
of  what  the  faithful  Nora  was  serving  her  and  as  little 
desire  to  eat  it.  Her  whole  being  seemed  to  be  tensely 
listening,  waiting,  and  her  own  voice  sounded  far  away 
and  unreal  as  she  joined  in  the  light  table-talk  and  banter 
of  the  other  two.  At  last  it  came — the  name  she  had 
been  waiting  for — and  her  fingers  tightened  on  the  little 
cup  of  black  coffee  she  was  toying  with. 

"Yes,  he  said  he  had  a  full  hour  that  he  could  steal 
from  the  hospital,"  Mr.  Ferriss  was  telling  Dr.  Kate. 
"So  he  spent  it  with  me  and  we  had  a  comfortable  stag- 
party  in  front  of  the  fire." 

"I  told  him  at  clinic  that  June  had  gone  to  the  City 
for  the  day,  and  he  said  he  would  try  and  get  over  and 
help  you  bear  your  desertion.  He  looks  mighty  peaked, 
that  man!" 

Dr.  Stanley's  usually  crisp  tones  had  a  note  of  deep 
concern  and  she  frowned  down  at  her  coffee  absently. 
Mr.  Ferriss'  transparently  delicate  features  clouded. 

"He  is  ill — unquestionably  seriously  ill.  And  we  can 
only  stand  helplessly  by  and  see  it  grow  more  serious! 
Who  can  'minister  to  a  mind  diseased' !  What  can 
any  one  do  while  conditions  are  as  they  are  ?" 

"Yes,  and  they  are  villainously  bad,"  Dr.  Stanley  re- 
turned shortly.  "That  man's  patience  and  sense  of  duty 
verge  on  the  criminal.  I  know  that  he  fills  me  with  an 
unholy  desire  to  give  that  creature  a  dose  of  her  favourite 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  347 

blend  that  will  keep  her  quiet  for  good  and  all!  Her 
latest  stunt  is  to  take  an  over-dose,  when  he  is  at  work 
in  his  study  or  asleep,  and  go  in  and  tell  him  about  it. 
That  means  a  hurry  call  for  Carl  or  me,  emetics,  stomach- 
pumps,  and  all  the  other  real  nice,  attractive  features  con- 
nected with  that  sort  of  a  seance/' 

She  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  fire-place  where  she 
braced  her  shoulders  against  the  mantel,  while  Mr.  Fer- 
riss  settled  himself  in  his  own  easy  chair.  June,  at  her 
desk,  leaned  over  an  open  drawer  sorting  some  papers. 
But  there  was  a  mist  of  pain  over  her  eyes  and  a  band 
tightened  sickeningly  across  her  breast. 

The  exasperated  voice  over  by  the  fire  went  on : — "The 
creature  has  an  uncanny  shrewdness  in  concocting  new 
forms  of  torment  for  that  man,  and  this  latest  she  has 
down  to  a  fine  art.  She  always  tells  him  immediately 
that  she  has  suicided  again,  and  of  course  knows  prompt 
action  will  pull  her  through.  She  is  yellow  as  a  duck's 
foot  and  her  breath  is  like  a  tannery,  but  that  man  stands 
by  like  a  dumb  soldier  through  three  or  four  hours  of 
performances  that  even  make  me  sick.  And  next  morn- 
ing he  goes  to  a  clinic  with  his  own  reputation  and  several 
lives  depending  on  the  steadiness  of  his  nerves.  Oh, 
it's  no  use,  Jimmy  Ferriss !  Parson  Drake  may  call  that 
sort  of  thing  marriage,  but  I  call  it  what  Sherman  called 
war.  It's  hell,  of  the  plain,  common,  truck-garden 
variety.  Dante  was  too  picturesque — all  his  different 
circles  had  at  least  the  compensation  of  being  as  thrilling 
as  the  movies.  They  are  cursed,  but  interesting.  John 
Orth's  hell  not  only  turns  your  heart  over  murderously, 
but  turns  your  stomach." 


CHAPTER  FIFTY 

IN  the  operating  room  of  his  hospital,  the  man  under 
discussion  was  working  over  a  case  from  the  City, 
rushed  to  him  on  an  evening  train.  Brother  scientists, 
orderlies  and  nurses  were  clustered  around  him  where  he 
bent  over  the  table  in  the  white  super-lighted  room. 
Silently,  deftly,  instruments  were  passed  from  antiseptic 
bath  to  the  swiftly  careful  hands  and  back  again.  The 
odour  of  ether  grew  heavier  in  the  closed  room,  the  tense 
faces  of  the  assistants  and  watchers  grew  whiter,  but  the 
white-clad  man  in  the  centre  of  the  white-clad  group 
played  his  lone  hand  steadily,  with  Death  his  opponent  and 
Love  praying  for  love  with  passion's  supreme  agony 
in  the  waiting  room  beyond. 

Daily,  nightly,  he  played  the  game  while  lives  trembled 
in  the  balance  and  in  the  ante-rooms  breaking  hearts 
waited.  Daily,  hourly,  his  skill  was  keyed  to  the  highest 
pitch  by  demands  that  recognised  no  law  of  time  nor  limi- 
tation nor  strength.  Ordinary  health  requirements- 
sleep,  food,  rest,  relaxation — these  played  scant  part  in 
the  life  of  the  surgeon,  and  though  he  had  risen  at  five 
that  morning  for  an  early  operation,  it  was  nearly  two 
the  next  morning  before  he  left  the  hospital  and  crossed 
the  grounds  to  his  own  home. 

He  had  forgotten  dinner.  The  servants  had  been  in- 
structed that  when  he  worked  late,  milk  and  crackers 
be  placed  in  his  study.  But  this  they  had  forgotten.  The 
study  was  cold  and  looked  neglected  and  cheerless,  and  in 
the  intense  stillness  of  those  hours  that  just  precede 
dawn,  the  very  atmosphere  seemed  steeped  with  a  sordid 
dreariness  and  hopelessness. 

348 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  349 

He  looked  over  at  the  fire-place,  but  there,  too,  care- 
lessness was  eloquent  in  the  burned-out  log  and  scattered 
ashes. 

The  habitual  calm  of  his  face  did  not  change,  but  in- 
stead of  going  into  his  bedroom,  he  slipped  off  his  coat, 
drew  a  steamer  rug  around  him  and  lay  down  on  the 
couch. 

In  a  moment  he  had  sunk  into  the  lethargy-slumber 
of  complete  exhaustion.  His  head  was  not  comfortable 
on  the  leather  cushion,  the  light  from  the  library  lamp 
streamed  down  on  his  face,  and  in  its  glare  it  looked  like 
a  waxen  mask. 

But  he  slept,  though  now  and  then  the  long  breath  of 
spent  energies  seemed  to  disturb  him  and  the  eyelids,  sunk 
in  the  shadows  of  the  sockets,  fluttered  uneasily. 

He  had  slept  about  twenty  minutes  when  the  door 
opened  and  Mrs.  Orth  came  in.  She  had  a  faded  brown 
bathrobe  on  over  her  nightgown  and  the  dry,  broken  hair 
straggled  thinly  to  her  shoulders.  In  her  sallow  face 
the  eyes  looked  peculiarly  hard  with  their  over-dilated 
pupils,  and  they  rested  on  the  sleeping  man  with  an  ex- 
pression of  cunning. 

Pulling  a  chair  over  the  polished  floor  noisily,  she  sat 
down  beside  the  couch,  and  hugged  the  bathrobe  around 
her.  The  sleeper  winced  at  the  grating  noise  and  mur- 
mured something,  but  did  not  waken.  Then  Mrs.  Orth 
leaned  over  and  shook  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"Yes!— what  is  it?" 

He  started  up  on  his  elbow,  his  professional  faculties 
instantly  on  the  alert;  but  at  sight  of  the  woman  beside 
him,  the  usual  mask-like  calm  settled  over  his  face,  and 
he  looked  at  her  with  his  peculiar  expressionless  gaze. 

"I  just  woke  up,  and  I  want  to  tell  you  my  dream." 


35O  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

Mrs.  Orth's  thin,  colourless  lips  smiled  in  enjoyment 
of  the  cunning  she  believed  to  be  very  subtle  and  deep. 

"Won't  it  keep  till  to-morrow?  I  have  just  come 
from  the  hospital,"  he  said  tonelessly.  But  as  she  shook 
her  head,  he  sank  back  on  the  hard  cushion,  closing  his 
eyes  for  a  moment  as  the  glare  of  light  struck  down  on 
them. 

"No,  I  want  to  tell  it  before  I  forget."  She  drew  her 
chair  closer.  "I  saw  you  and  that  Ferriss  man's  daugh- 
ter together.  She  was  kneeling  in  front  of  you,  and  she 
was  holding  out  her  skirt.  And  you  were  throwing  hand- 
fuls  of  bright,  shining  things  on  the  skirt — handfuls  and 
handfuls,  a  perfect  shower!  And  she  kept  holding  her 
skirt  for  more.  And  what  do  you  suppose  the  shining 
things  were?" 

She  bent  forward  eagerly  to  look  into  the  eyes  that 
watched  her — eyes  as  opaque  and  impenetrable  as  earth- 
grey  jade. 

"What  do  you  think  they  were?"  she  insisted  and  he 
replied  quietly — "I  am  not  good  at  guessing.  Pray  go 
on,  if  you  have  more  to  say." 

"Why,  it  was  money !"  she  cried  triumphantly.  "Don't 
you  see?  They  say  she  is  poor — that  she  can  barely 
make  ends  meet.  And  she  is  going  to  be  poorer  yet,  be- 
cause she  has  made  trouble  with  her  pictures.  You  didn't 
know  that,  but  I  find  out  these  things.  She  is  poor,  I 
tell  you!" 

"Well?— goon." 

He  spoke  evenly,  and  her  eyes  grew  sullen  with  dis- 
appointed anger. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  The  dream  was  a  warning  to  you. 
She  pretends  to  be  friendly,  but  she's  after  your  money. 
She  doesn't  care  anything  about  you.  You  were  only  a 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  351 

farm-boy,  anyhow.  You  were  sort  of  bound  out  to  my 
father." 

Against  the  baffling,  veiled  gaze  her  anger  hurled  it- 
self like  muddied  waves  thick  with  jagged,  nail-fanged 
wreckage. 

"She  wants  your  money — the  dream  proves  that.  She 
knows  you  have  lots  and  she  is  going  to  be  clever  and 
get  some  of  it.  You  are  not  young  and  smart  looking 
like  those  men  at  the  Inn,  with  their  tennis-flannels  and 
stylish  golf  clothes  and  riding  clothes.  What  does  she 
care  about  you,  do  you  suppose,  when  she  can  flirt  with 
them?" 

The  clock  down  in  the  hall  boomed  three  muffled 
strokes.  The  man  betrayed  no  impatience  nor  weariness. 

"She  doesn't  care — she  only  wants  your  money.  And 
now  you  know,  because  the  dream  shows  it.  You  never 
can  trust  those  queer  people,  and  I  always  told  you  she 
was  bad.  Sister  says  so,  and  she  knows.  She  knows 
how  people  talk  about  her  and  that  child  of  hers,  while 
she  keeps  her  head  in  the  air  as  though  she  was  just  as 
good  as  other  people.  She  can't  get  anybody  to  marry 
her  and  she  has  to  work  and  it  serves  her  right.  But 
she  thought  she  could  get  those  handfuls  of  money 
out  of  you  and  she  can't!  You  are  warned — my  dream 
has  warned  you " 

On  and  on  the  eager  voice  went  with  its  soiling  stream 
of  suspicion  and  accusation.  The  room  grew  colder  with 
the  coming  dawn's  death-like  chill.  The  dying  vines 
scratched  ghostly  fingers  across  the  pane,  in  the  wind 
that  moaned  uneasily  around  the  house.  Death  and  life — • 
life  and  death — the  tall  clock  in  the  hall  ticked  out  with 
slow  solemnity.  The  longness  and  the  tiredness  and  the 
dun-coloured  flatness  of  it  all — life  and  death,  and  death 


352  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

in  life;  and  in  the  end,  when  it  was  all  over  and  done 
with — for  what? 

When  he  was  at  last  alone,  the  grey  of  coming  day  was 
paling  the  East.  He  turned  out  the  light,  and  drawing 
the  steamer  rug  around  him  with  a  shiver,  lay  down  again 
and  tried  to  sleep.  But  sleep  now  came  only  fitfully,  and 
when  he  heard  the  servants  stirring  he  had  his  fire  started, 
took  a  cold  shower,  ordered  some  coffee  and  settled  him- 
self to  work  at  his  book. 

In  the  last  package  of  translations  were  some  extra 
leaves,  and  as  the  eastern  horizon  sent  filaments  of  amber 
and  pale  rose  across  the  hills,  he  read  what  she  had  writ- 
ten, and  then  sat  staring  out  at  the  distant  pageantry 
of  sky  and  cloud  and  wondrous  changing  color : 

You  do  not  play  fair!  You  keep  the  letter  and  not 
the  spirit  of  the  "sending  to  Coventry"  promise.  You 
know  the  little  Goupil  print  on  my  wall — the  "Maison  de 
Sante" — where  the  woman  in  chains  crouches  on  the 
floor,  with  the  stick  of  wood  held  in  her  arms  like  a 
child?  In  that  abomination  of  desolation  the  eyes  of  her 
faith  found  colour  and  warmth  and  life  in  the  thing  she 
held.  May  not  another  woman  build  for  herself  a  dream 
out  of  the  stuff  that  dreams  are  made  of? 

The  poor  mad  thing,  hugging  her  bit  of  wood  and 
scrap  of  bright  cotton,  content  for  a  little  space  with  her 
crudely  pitiful  make-shift,  trying  for  an  hour  not  to  know 
what  she  knows  too  surely — is  she  game  worthy  your 
clever  marksmanship?  For  a  week  of  long  hours  and 
days  and  nights  every  fibre  of  her  being  had  called — • 

called !  And  at  last  pulse-beat  of  wrist  beat  against 

pulse-beat  of  wrist — only  that — and  yet  she  leaned,  as  a 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  353 

Mary  leaned  over  a  Child,  finding  in  manger  and  straw 
a  place  of  pain  that  held  a  glory  illimitable. 

May  not  your  God  "move  in  mysterious  ways"  ?  Are 
you  quite  sure  you  are  never  wrong?  In  her  glass 
the  woman  saw  "eyes  that  sang" — lips  whose  content  was 
prayer.  Perhaps  her  soul  turned  gropingly  toward  a 
Giver,  sternly  tender,  whose  long  discipline  meant  but 
Probation.  Perhaps  in  the  pulse-beat  that  fell  as  little 
hammer-blows  upon  the  bitterness  and  weariness  that  had 
imprisoned  the  soul,  as  the  pearl  in  its  shell,  she  read 
Design.  And  so  her  eyes  sang — till  you  broke  faith 
and  quenched  the  song  and  touched  with  aloes  the  prayer 
upon  the  lips. 

And  why? — why?  Can't  you  spare  the  poor  dream- 
doll  with  its  meagre  finery?  Must  you  repent  a  pass- 
ing gentleness?  May  not  your  God  have  decreed  that 
"At  last"  even  if  with  it  the  inflexible  "Thus  far!"  Is 
discipline  greater  than  mercy  that  you  deify  it  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  else? 

Do  Divine  Eyes  find  pleasure  in  puritan  frown?  or 
pagan  laughter?  Might  not  honest  unbelief  toil  doggedly 
on  and  in  the  end  find  a  God  of  Love,  while  cold  right- 
eousness blindly  worships  an  idol  of  stone  ?  You  are  right 
and  I  am  wrong?  How  do  you  know? 

A  lifetime  ago  I  prayed — for  you.  You  were  the 
Grail — the  outward  and  visible  sign.  I  did  not  weary 
a  possible  Throne  with  supplication.  I  did — well  or  ill — 
my  best,  alone.  The  years  gave  and  took  back  again, 
strength  and  interest  ebbed,  achievement  thrilled  and  then 
ceased  to  thrill,  and  always  I  watched  the  dark  horizon- 
line  for  the  Sign — for  you. 

Life — a  shambles  that  stained  my  skirt-hem  with  its 
blood  and  tears — I  walked  through,  waiting  for  a  God 
who  would  prove  himself  honest,  who  would  give  me 


354  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

in  the  end  the  one  thing  he  could  give  that  could  re- 
pay  . 

What  is  worship?  The  thousand  mummeries  of  a 
thousand  warring  sects?  Or  labour  that  endures  and 
waits  the  payment  of  its  wage? — that  pays  the  tribute 
to  its  Master  of  the  conviction  that  he  will  not  cheat  ? — < — 

He  did  not  cheat.  From  your  eyes — grey,  cold,  in- 
scrutable— looked  that  for  which  I  had  waited.  It  came 
from  immeasurable  distances,  from  where  dwelt  a  soul 
solitary  and  sufficient  and  wonderfully  sane.  It  was  the 
gaze  of  the  impregnable,  of  absolute  dominion  of  men  and 
of  self,  of  one  in  whom  I  could  believe  as  the  prelate  be- 
lieves in  the  wearer  of  the  triple-crown,  as  the  Royalist 
in  his  king. 

This  you  may  define  as  you  will.  Change  it  you 
could  not.  As  it  reaches  back  to  a  girl's  prayer,  so  it 
reaches  on  to  where  wait  eternal  things.  It  is  the  first 
understanding  between  a  Master  who  exacted  much  and 
a  servant  who  trusted. 

It  was  sunset  when  John  Orth  left  the  hospital  and 
instead  of  going  to  his  house,  he  turned  down  the  lane 
that  led  to  the  mill  road.  When  he  opened  the  picket 
gate  that  led  to  the  Ferriss  cabin,  he  saw  June's  white 
wool  gown  through  the  trees. 

She  was  looking  at  something  she  held  in  her  hand, 
and  as  he  approached  she  raised  her  head  and  regarded 
him  with  gravely  meditative  eyes.  At  her  side  he  paused 
and  stood  with  bared  head  and  after  a  little,  as  she 
did  not  speak,  he  looked  down  at  her  hand. 

"Is  it  hurt  ?"  he  asked. 

"Beyond  even  your  surgery — yes,"  she  replied,  look- 
ing at  the  little  heap  of  crumpled  feathers  in  her  curved 
fingers.  Then  she  knelt  beside  a  dish  of  water  she  kept 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  355 

always  in  the  grass  for  the  birds'  drink  and  bath,  and  at 
the  deeper  end,  submerged  the  hand  that  held  the  small, 
quivering  heap,  to  the  wrist. 

For  some  moments  she  knelt  there  and  when  the 
tremulous  little  body  grew  still,  she  leaned  over  to  a 
flower  bed  and  buried  it.  Laying  down  the  trowel,  she 
rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  wiping  her  wet  hand  on  her 
soft  muslin  apron. 

"You  do  not  mind  ?"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head.  There  was  a  droop  to  the  figure 
standing  with  the  white  folds  of  her  gown  falling  in 
straight  lines  to  her  feet. 

"It  is  'peace  after  pain,'  "  she  said  slowly. 

There  was  a  rustic  bench  built  under  a  spreading  maple, 
and  she  turned  and  went  to  it.  Sitting  down,  she  leaned 
her  head  back  against  the  rough  bark  of  the  tree  and 
closed  her  eyes.  The  surgeon,  standing  with  one  foot 
on  the  other  end  of  the  bench  and  leaning  on  his  knee, 
noted  the  shadows  under  the  eyes,  the  faint  lines  oi  care 
around  the  mouth. 

"What  of  the  series?"  he  asked. 

Her  eyes  opened,  wan  and  shadowy  in  .the  dusk  now 
gathering  fast  under  the  trees. 

"It  is  about  the  end,"  she  replied  quietly.  "The  chief 
is  giving  in." 

"And  then?" 

The  hand  that  had  held  the  bird  under  the  water  till 
its  struggles  ceased,  closed  tensely  for  a  moment  and 
then  relaxed. 

"And  then?  Oh,  I  am  arranging  for  a  different  line 
of  work — commercial — for  a  change."  She  spoke  with 
careful  indifference,  but  he  watched  her  closely  as  he 
went  on  with  friendly  interest : 

"Doesn't  pay  very  well,  that  sort,  does  it?" 


356  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"Not  very — but  it  will  answer '"  She  paused 

abruptly,  avoiding  his  eyes,  then  she  swung  around  and 
faced  him,  leaning  forward  with  her  two  hands  on  the 
bench  between  them. 

"The  work  will  not  be  the  same,  but  I  wouldn't  mind 
if  you  would  be — human!"  A  very  passion  of  weary 
protest  thrilled  in  the  low  voice  and  in  the  gathering 
dark  her  eyes  flamed  up  to  his.  "I  stood  it  while  that 
bird's  little  body  struggled  in  my  hand  under  the  water, 
because  I  knew  its  hurt  would  be  healed.  It  meant  re- 
lease from  pain.  But  you — you  close  the  pitiless  fingers 
of  your  narrowness  and  your  bigotry  around  me  and 
hold  me  in  torture.  I  want  to  go  on  with  my  work, 
whatever  it  may  be,  and  to  be  glad.  I  am  content — so 
more  than  content! — with  just  my  work  and  the  few 
around  me  that  I  care  for.  I  do  not  ask  glory  nor 
riches  nor  society  nor  fashion.  They  mean  nothing  to 
me,  because  the  one  great  thing  means  so  much  more. 
I  want  just  my  work  and  the  moments,  now  and  then, 
that  you  give  me.  They  are  all  that  I  need — but  I  do 
need  them  terribly.  I  am  a  beggar  that  begs  crumbs. 
And  you  have  no  mercy.  You  make  me  beg!" 

The  low  voice  shook,  then  it  steadied  again,  sinking  still 
lower. 

"Well,  be  content!  You  have  put  my  dignity  down 
under  your  feet  and  I  cannot  help  myself.  But  I  think 
even  your  hard  creed  teaches  something  about  showing 
mercy  to  helpless  things!" 

She  lifted  one  hand  to  her  throat,  then  laid  her  arm 
along  the  back  of  the  bench  and  dropped  her  head  down 
on  it. 

"June !" 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  stir.  The  voice  that  spoke 
the  name  was  not  the  same  voice.  The  slow,  undisturbed 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  357 

calm  held  for  once  a  note  that  meant  the  lifting  of  a 
mask,  and  in  answer  to  it  the  bowed  head  raised,  and 
her  eyes  reached  to  his  eyes  in  desperate  questioning. 

"John  Orth!"  It  was  just  a  whisper,  and  still  leaning 
her  left  arm  on  the  back  of  the  bench,  she  slowly  raised 
the  other  hand  and  laid  its  fingers  and  cupped  palm 
against  his  face.  "John  Orth!" 

His  eyes  looked  down  into  the  depths  of  hers  steadily, 
searchingly. 

"John !"  The  whisper  trembled,  then  with  a  little 

broken  rush,  she  cried — "Ah,  can't  you  forget  to  weigh 
and  measure,  and  be  just  human — just  yourself ! — You 
cannot  deny  that  you — care,  and  be  honest!" 

"I  don't  want  to  deny  it !" 

The  words  were  grimly  said,  but  she  drew  in  her 
breath  sharply  and  swayed  a  little  forward.  And  in  the 
shadow  he  turned. 

For  this  the  Way  of  Pain !  For  this  the  long  hunger  of 
heart  and  soul — the  crouching  of  the  woman  at  the  foot 
of  the  Sphinx,  waiting  for  its  sign.  For  this > 

Brow  and  cheek,  the  face  of  John  Orth  lay  against  hers. 
Granite  stern,  that  face :  yet  now  in  the  chaos  of  emo- 
tions that  swirled  stormily  through  her  senses,  she  felt  the 
rarely  fine  texture  of  the  skin  with  keenly  delicate  joy. 
A  long  moment — then,  her  hands  in  his,  she  rose  to  her 
feet  and  with  the  heavy  mystery  of  the  night  closing 
round  them,  shutting  the  world  outside,  she  lay  in  his 
arms,  his  lips  on  her  lips,  while  the  poignant,  madden- 
ing sweetness  of  their  warmth  pulsed  through  her  body 
with  stinging,  exquisite  pain.  Heart  and  body  and  soul — > 
the  supreme  and  wonderful  perfectness  of  that  trinity  of 
passion  that  knows  no  flaw,  swept  them  together,  merged 
indissolubly  while  time  and  memory  should  be.  Heart 
and  body  and  soul,  and  lips  against  lips  for  a  moment 


358  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

that  gods  themselves  may  not  surpass — for  this  they  had 
waited,  had  paid.  And  this,  only  the  soft  stillness  of 
sleeping  hills  witnessed.  They  were  alone,  and  on  lip 
and  heart  and  brain,  Life  laid  the  baptismal  touch  of 
fire — the  divine  crucible  drip  of  blood  and  flame. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-ONE 

T  T  was  Sunday  and  there  was  a  flurry  of  snow  in  the 
•*•  air  as  the  Vagabonds  trooped  along"  the  lane  to  the 
Ferriss  cabin  and  very  audibly  took  possession  of  that 
peaceful  domicile  for  the  afternoon  and  evening. 

They  were  greeted  with  dubiously  raised  eyebrows  by 
their  hostess  and  by  a  whoop  of  joy  from  Peter  Pan. 

"Did  you  bring  a  steak  or  something?"  June  demanded 
as  they  trooped  in  and  gaily  discarded  snow-flecked  wraps. 
"You  look  ravenous  and  I  can't  fill  you  all  up  on  one 
delicate  little  chicken  pie!  Why  on  earth  didn't  you 
send  word  yesterday  that  you  were  coming?" 

"We  didn't  know  we  were  till  to-day.  The  Old  Man 
called  off  this  morning's  rehearsal  after  we  got  to  the 
theatre,  so  we  phoned  the  rest  of  the  clan  to  foregather 
at  the  depot  for  the  12:15,  and  here  we  are,"  explained 
Clara,  hugging  Peter  and  biting  his  tanned  throat  while 
he  shrieked  with  delight. 

"And  I  raided  old  Burnsy  at  the  Press  club  and  threat- 
ened to  take  the  stump  for  another  steward  if  he  didn't 
separate  himself  from  one  of  his  frilliest  sirloins,"  said 
Orrin  Tweed.  "But  where  is  the  steak?" 

"Dicky  has  it.  Where  is  he  ?  Good  Lord ! — we  haven't 
lost  Dick  and  all  that  steak,  have  we  ?"  cried  Huntoon. 

"Heavens,  I  hope  not!"  cried  Mocky  nervously.  "There 
are  lots  of  artists,  but  the  Armours  are  sending  meat  up 
into  the  box-seat  class!" 

"Dick's  all  right — he's  out  making  up  to  Nora.  That's 
why  she  always  gives  him  the  best  of  everything.  Nora 
is  a  susceptible  female  and  Richard,  like  all  his  craft, 

359 


360  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

knows  enough  to  stand  in  with  the  cook,"  Mrs.  Hun- 
toon  called  reassuringly. 

"Incidentally,  who  is  the  Cabaret?"  her  husband  sud- 
denly enquired  of  the  company,  and  the  voice  of  the 
Major  replied  gently:  "Me.  I  am  the  Cabaret!" 

He  was  busy  at  the  couch,  bending  over  a  leather  kit- 
bag  that  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  with  a  relieved 
sigh  he  extracted  several  bottles. 

"  'Come,  fill  the  c '  " 

"Bromide !"  a  chorus  of  voices  clamoured  threateningly. 
"It  has  become  a  state's  prison  offence  to  quote  that!" 
Orrin  Tweed  added.  "You  can  go  back  to  'Drink  to  me 
only  with  thine  eyes'  now,  Dasc.  It's  new  to  this  genera- 
tion." 

"I  think  I  feel  the  premonitory  symptoms  of  a  nervous 
chill,"  Mr.  Huntoon  broke  in  anxiously.  "Feel  my  pulse, 
June!" 

"Yes,  you  look  it,"  his  hostess  replied  unsympathetic- 
ally.  "Mocky  will  hold  your  hand  while  I  fix  you  some 
Jamaica  Ginger." 

"No,  no! — don't  trouble.  I  will  bear  it,"  said  the 
sufferer  heroically.  "Unless  the  Major — just  two  fingers, 
perhaps — it  might  ward  off  the  chill " 

"Sure,  an'  that  chill  do  be  epidemic,  I'm  thinking" 
Regan  put  in  solemnly.  "It's  meself  that  has  that  same. 
But  not  a  dhrop  more  than  two  fingers,  Major  dear!" 

"And  Nora's  kitchen  only  about  furnace  heat!  She 
must  have  left  the  oven  door  open  and  the  draft  blew 
on  you,  Dicky,"  Miss  Ferriss  commented.  "Where's 
your  chill,  Orrin?" 

"I  scorn  a  subterfuge,"  the  big  novelist  replied  with 
splendid  dignity.  "I  have  no  chill,  June.  The  day  is  beau- 
tiful, and  your  little  house  is  as  sunny  and  warm  as  the 
beautiful  Southland,  and  its  mistress  is  as  beautiful  as  her 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  361 

natal  month.  No,  there  is  no  chill  anywhere,  that  I  can 
discern,  and  people  with  chills  ought  to  stay  home  and 
not  inflict  their  premonitory  symptoms  and  shakes  on 
other  people.  But  I  have  a  sort  of  mis'ry  around  my 
diaphragm — the  doctor  says  it  is  from  overwork — not 
dangerous,  you  understand!  But  he  says  just  a  slight 
stimulant  taken  in  time  will  always  head  off  serious 
trouble." 

June  shook  her  head  mournfully  as  she  took  some  little 
glasses  out  of  a  corner  cabinet. 

"What  is  your  malady,  Clara?"  she  asked.  "Mocky, 
does  anybody  know  how  bad  you  feel?" 

"I  need,"  proclaimed  the  Major,  stepping  forward  gal- 
lantly to  relieve  his  hostess  of  the  glasses,  "I  need  neither 
chills  nor  premonitory  diaphragms,  when  I  am  inspired, 
as  now,  to  drink  to  the  ladies,  God  bless  'em!  Your 
glasses,  gentlemen !  Ladies,  your  slave !" 

Mr.  Ferriss  from  his  big  chair  looked  on  with  enjoy- 
ment, and  rose  to  his  feet  with  elevated  glass  that  clinked 
against  that  of  the  gallant  Southerner  in  response  to  the 
toast. 

"Oh,  I  know,  it  all  sounds  well,"  Mrs.  Huntoon  re- 
marked dolefully,  her  chin  resting  on  Peter's  golden  curls. 
"But  my  pennies  all  go  into  weighing  machines  now,  and 
one  creme  de  menthe  means  a  three-day  fast!  So  there 
is  no  encouragement  for  me  to  have  chills!" 

There  was  a  joyous  and  noisy  dinner  served  by  the 
delighted  and  much  assisted  Nora  at  mid-afternoon. 
Regan  and  Huntoon  tied  themselves  into  aprons,  made 
salad  dressing,  whipped  eggs,  pulverised  coffee  for  the 
percolator  and  otherwise  made  themselves  genuinely  use- 
ful. Mocky  and  Clara  Sherbourn  set  the  table  in  the 
living-room,  much  hampered  by  the  enthusiastic  if  mis- 


362  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

taken  zeal  of  Peter  Pan,  while  June  and  the  rest  luxuri- 
ously played  lotus-eater  around  the  fire-place. 

Phone  messages  from  June  rounded  up  Drs.  Goethe 
and  Stanley  for  the  evening,  and  instructed  them  to 
pick  up  Dr.  Orth  en  route. 

When  they  arrived  June  was  waiting  for  them  in  the 
doorway,  the  level  rays  of  the  setting  sun  burnishing 
the  folds  of  her  wool  gown  to  silver.  Dr.  Stanley 
touched  her  shoulder  with  an  affectionate  pat  as  she 
passed  into  the  house  to  a  chorus  of  greetings.  The 
two  men  uncovered  as  they  approached  the  step  and  Dr. 
Goethe  bent  over  June's  right  hand  with  old-fashioned 
and  stately  courtesy. 

Laughingly  she  extended  her  left  to  Dr.  Orth  and 
taking  it  in  his,  he  stood  looking  up  at  the  warmly 
radiant  picture  she  made,  framed  by  the  brilliant  crim- 
son and  gold  of  the  autumn  leaves.  The  eyes  that  met 
and  answered  his  were  luminous  and  tender  and  they 
greeted  him  with  the  exquisite  camaraderie  that  makes 
the  long,  sweet  silence  of  an  exchanged  look  so  richly 
eloquent.  Through  their  interlaced  fingers  he  felt  the 
quickening  beat  of  answering  pulses,  the  wine-sharp 
magic  that  life  can  know  through  love  only. 

In  response  to  gay  calls  from  the  Vagabonds,  Dr. 
Goethe  went  into  the  house,  leaving  them  alone  for  one  of 
those  inexpressibly  precious  moments  that  are  each  a 
Taj  Mahal  jewel  of  that  jewelled  shrine-wonder  that  love 
builded  to  Love,  immortalising  the  perfection  that  may 
be. 

In  the  red-gold  splendour  that  streamed  down  on  them 
from  the  hills  she  bent  over  him. 

"Are  you  a  mendicant?  Do  you  ask  alms,  sir 
stranger?"  she  whispered,  eyes  and  lips  alight  with 
laughter.  "Beg  what  you  will  and  it  shall  be  yours. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  363 

For  I  am  rich "  Their  clasped  hands  tightened, 

and  through  answering  smiles  the  lambent  flame  of  re- 
membered moments  played  warmly  and  silently  as  golden 
auroras.  Weighted  with  the  wonder-sweetness  of  it, 
her  whisper  touched  his  bruise,d  spirit  with  the  yearn- 
ing tenderness  of  a  love  that  gave  its  all  freely,  gladly, 
content  with  just  love's  recognition. 

"And  how  will  it  all  end?"  he  said  slowly,  the  heavy 
shadow  of  long  denial  touching  his  eyes  as  they  drew 
from  hers  the  strange  and  vivid  strength  that  was  so  new 
and  wonderful.  "How  is  it  going  to  end?" 

He  saw  her  head  lift  with  the  quick  fear  of  forest 
things,  then  the  spirit  of  her  looked  bravely  back  into 
his  eyes. 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know "  she  answered  as 

slowly.  "But  for  these,  our  moments,  I  am  so  grateful. 
Ah,  my  dearest,  how  many  in  this  sorry  world  have 
known  this  that  Life  has  given  us  at  last!  And  if  it 
give,  and  then  take  away  again,  still — don't  you  see? — I 
am  the  richest  woman  in  the  world!  For  all  of  the 
world's  gold  cannot  buy — just  this !" 

She  looked  down  at  the  hands  that  held  hers — the 
skilled,  quiet  hands  that  were  so  characteristic  of  him, 
and  that  she  had  held  against  her  lips  while  through  her 
mind  something  read  years  ago  passed  brokenly: 

"Along  each  knotted  cord  and  vein 
I  trace  the  varying  chart  of  years, 
The  long,  long  jouiney  and  the  pain, 
The  weight  of  Atlas — and  the  tears " 

The  mute  eloquence  of  hands  that  all  through  life 
give,  give — where  those  given  give  nothing  back  again; 
of  hands  that  guard  and  lift  and  sustain  through  long 


364  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

relentless  years;  that  learn  the  curved  quiescence  of 
emptiness,  the  stillness  that  no  longer  expects,  the  slow 
pressing  of  palm  upon  palm  in  dumb  submission  to  all 
things!  The  sorrowfulness  of  it  caught  at  her  throat. 

"Dear  hands ! — most  dear  and  so  patient  hands !  They 
have  given  to  me  the  great  gift.  And  if  God  take  them 
from  me  again,  still  His  mercy  leaves  the  gift  with  me 
for  always.  To  have  been  blest — should  we  not  be  grate- 
ful for  that?" 

Her  eyes  shone  through  tears,  her  mouth  trembled  in  its 
smiling,  but  the  glory  of  those  who  have  striven  for  the 
high  peaks  and  glimpsed  their  ineffable  white  light,  was 
in  her  face. 

"And  the  times  there  seemed  to  be  only  one's  self  and 
God,"  he  said,  gravely  musing.  "When  one  came  face 
to  face  with  the  soul's  vast  loneliness!" 

"It  is  the  soul's  probation,"  she  answered  him  gently. 
"And  for  those  who  are  patient  and  wait,  the  answer 
comes  at  last." 

Reluctantly  their  hands  drew  apart,  but  the  light  in 
her  face  was  in  his  as  they  entered  the  cabin  and  were 
swept  into  the  gay  storm  of  badinage  and  scoffing  that 
flicked  their  wits  to  action  with  silk  whips  and  that  was 
the  language  by  which  Vagabondia  clothed  in  sparkling 
and  saucy  Harlequinade  its  deep  affection  for  its  clan. 

With  the  happy  Peter  flat  on  his  back  on  the  floor  be- 
fore the  fire  were  several  of  his  adorers  sitting  tailor- 
fashion  around  him,  while  they  roasted  chestnuts  and 
marshmallows.  The  rest  occupied  the  roomy  couch  and 
easy  chairs,  the  men  contentedly  smoking  their  post- 
prandial cigars. 

June,  curled  among  the  couch  cushions  and  with  her 
face  in  the  shadow,  lazily  listened  and  watched  the  ex- 
pressive faces  over  which  the  firelight  played.  With  a 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  365 

word  or  two  she  steered  the  laughing  chatter  into  reminis- 
cences drolly  funny,  and  told  with  the  inimitable  clever- 
ness that  is  only  at  its  best  when  the  trained  raconteur  is 
in  the  private  and  charmed  circle  of  his  "ain  people." 
When  they  were  well  started — story  suggesting  story, 
and  tales  of  desperate  experiences  seen  through  eyes 
always  able  to  extract  something  humorous  from  the 
worst  and  most  hopeless — she  herself  was  silent,  while  she 
watched  Orth  intently. 

At  first  he  leaned  back  in  his  big  chair,  his  gaze  fol- 
lowing the  smoke  of  his  cigar  through  half-closed  lids, 
his  face  haggard  in  the  flickering  light.  But  soon  the 
deeply  ploughed  lines  relaxed  and  a  shimmer  of  amuse- 
ment softened  the  stern  face  and  at  last  reached  the 
eyes — eyes  that  to  June  always  suggested  the  baffling 
earth-grey  jade.  A  ringing  shout  of  laughter  that  fol- 
lowed a  piece  of  Huntoon's  drollery,  surprised  the  sur- 
geon into  laughter  as  spontaneous  as  it  was  rare,  and  the 
woman  on  the  couch,  watching  from  her  shadowed  corner 
with  eyes  jealously  glad,  pressed  her  clasped  hands  tightly 
against  her  breast.  A  wave  of  passionate  gratitude  swept 
warmly  over  her — they  had  made  him  laugh,  these  breezy, 
clever  vagabonds  who  were  her  people !  With  the  won- 
derful magic  of  their  art  and  their  genius  they  had 
touched  the  opaque,  brooding  eyes  and  had  surprised  them 
into  the  pellucid  laughter  of  youth.  The  years  and  their 
weariness  had  fallen  from  him,  and  through  the  heavy 
mantle  of  his  dignities  and  the  heavy  shadow  of  his  bur- 
dens, the  impish  enjoyment  of  the  boy  looked  out  in 
mischievous  appreciation  of  the  actor's  lawless  but  ir- 
resistible fascination. 

"I  told  you  he  could  talk  himself  out  of  jail,"  Tweed 
was  saying  gravely.  "By  rights  he  should  be  there 
now,  but  the  judges  who  ought  to  fine  him  make  the 


366  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

mistake  of  giving  him  a  hearing.  And  by  the  time  he 
has  been  heard  ten  minutes  they  are  ready  to  borrow 
money  from  the  Sheriff  and  lend  it  to  him." 

How  young  and  wonderfully  winning  the  smiling  face 
now  looked! 

"//  it  could  be  so  always — boy! — boy!" 

The  cry  beat  against  her  lips  with  the  desperate  longing 
of  a  prayer.  It  was  the  boy  imprisoned  behind  the 
mask  of  stone,  as  were  the  boys  in  mill  and  factory,  that 
she  had  battled  for.  And  it  was  the  boy-soul  of  him 
that  now  looked  out,  off-guard  and  idly  happy,  that  she 
had  searched  for  and  had  appealed  to  her  gods  for. 

The  thick  hair  was  silvered  around  his  temples;  the 
mouth,  silent  and  terribly  patient,  was  set  in  iron  stern- 
ness and  self -repression.  But  she  had  called  upon  Vaga- 
bondia  to  come  to  her  aid  and  it  had  trooped  gaily  across 
the  grey  vista  of  Duty,  shattering  its  grimness  with 
saucy  quip  and  bubbling  laughter,  and  waking  the  Boy 
to  the  joyousness  of  freedom  for  a  little  hour. 

When  they  were  all  leaving,  Mr.  Ferriss  detained 
the  surgeon  for  a  few  minutes  in  his  room.  June,  a  white 
shawl  twisted  around  her  shoulders,  was  at  the  gate 
when  he  came  out.  The  voices  of  the  gay  party  straggling 
up  the  lane  floated  back  on  the  still,  frosty  air,  and  June's 
lips  were  smiling  as  she  turned  to  him  with  a  package 
of  paper. 

"Your  own  matter — it  is  almost  the  last! — and  a  little 
'story,'  Eminence." 

The  night  was  dark,  ragged  clouds  hiding  the  stars, 
but  in  the  dimness  he  looked  down  into  eyes  that  were 
wistfully  tender. 

"Your  vagabonds  are  a  tonic,"  he  smiled  as  Dicky 
Regan  yodelled  back  to  him  and  Mocky  Hazleton  trilled 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  367 

an  echo.  "I  have  forgotten  that  hospitals  exist.  And 
you — you  look  tired.  Rest  for  a  little.  Stop  trying 
to  be  strong  and  just  let  things  drift  a  bit!" 

Their  hands — the  left — met  palm  to  palm,  and  then 
slipped  to  the  wrist.  She  nodded  assent. 

"I  will,"  she  promised.    "Say  'I  do.'  " 

Her  heart  thrilled  again  in  its  passionate  gratitude  to 
her  brethren  of  Bohemia,  as  she  saw  the  boy-laughter 
glint  in  his  eyes. 

"I  do,"  he  responded  with  great  gravity. 

"June  Ferriss,  I  do,"  she  amended  in  a  whisper,  and  his 
eyes  grew  tender,  his  voice  infinitely  gentle. 

"June  Ferriss,  I  do!" 

Leaning  against  the  whitewashed  post  of  the  little  gate, 
she  lifted  the  clasped  hands  against  her  cheek.  Then 
with  her  finger-tips  she  found  the  pulse-beat  and  counted 
the  small  trip-hammer  as  it  lifted  and  fell,  lifted  and 
fell . 

"See  how  just  the  tip  of  my  finger  quite  covers  that 
faint  pulsation.  And  yet  the  beginning  and  end  of  life — 
its  meaning,  and  its  hope,  and  its  God,  for  me — are  all 
held  there.  That  is  my  territory,  John  Orth !" 

Lifting  her  finger,  she  pressed  her  lips  to  the  wrist. 
"Do  you  remember  the  little  barley-cake  of  Browning's 
'Aurora  Leigh'?  How  you  have  made  me  battle  for 
my  barley-cake!  Poor  Weelum  and  his  lost  pride,  and 
poor  me  and  my  lost  dignity !  Do  you  know  that  no  one 
should  ever  say  with  assurance — 'I  would  never  do  so 
and  so!'  Life  has  a  sardonic  humour  of  its  own  and 
makes  us  some  day  eat  our  words." 

She  laughed  softly,  with  a  little  resigned  shrug  of 
her  shoulders,  and  bent  her  head,  her  cheek  in  the  palm 
of  his  hand.  His  fingers  curved  under  her  chin  with 


368  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

gentle  pressure  for  a  moment,  then  she  lifted  her  head 
and  stepped  back. 

As  the  surgeon  went  up  the  lane  through  the  black 
shadows  of  the  trees  June  Ferriss  rested  her  arms  on 
the  post  and  looked  at  the  ragged  clouds,  torn  here  and 
there  to  let  a  star  glimmer  through. 

So  through  storms  she  had  sought  the  lode-star,  refus- 
ing any  lesser  light.  The  storms  had  been  many,  leaving 
her  weary  and  spent.  She  had  gone  out  from  the  safely 
hedged  life  of  the  people  of  her  own  kind,  and  had  given 
up  its  ease  and  luxury  for  the  grim  and  heart-breaking 
battle  for  bread.  She  had  learned  what  life  meant  to 
women  where  pain  pressed  the  iron  into  the  soul  while 
labour  pressed  its  yoke  on  galled  shoulders.  She  had 
heard,  as  those  women  hear  through  nights  long  and  black 
and  bitter,  the  coldly  practical  "What's  the  use?"  that 
distils  its  weakening  acid  in  hearts  hungering  for  comfort 
and  minds  weary  of  conflict.  She  had  walked  their  Via 
Dolorosa  as  one  of  them — she  had  seen  them  here  and 
there  falter  and  stumble  away  to  an  easier  path,  sanc- 
tioned or  unsanctioned  by  society,  but  in  both  cases  at 
the  price  of  shamed  womanhood. 

And  the  primal  and  terrible  passions  of  man  had 
caught  at  her  with  their  talon  fingers.  When  exhaustion 
made  sleep  broken  and  fitful  she  would  waken  with  a 
numbing  pain  in  her  left  arm  where  the  cold  body  of  the 
dead  baby  seemed  to  be  crushing  it.  The  blackness  of  that 
night  would  sweep  over  her  and  the  fearful,  inexpressible 
fear  that  surrounds  the  taking  of  a  life  with  such  grisly 
and  mysterious  horror,  would  bring  the  beads  of  sweat 
around  her  lips  and  on  her  temples. 

This,  the  atavistic  superstition  of  past  generations, 
she  would  battle  with,  calling  up  the  forces  that  her  brain 
recognised  and  respected  to  rout  the  ghosts  born  of  dark- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  369 

ness  and  over-taxed  nerves.  But  it  meant  a  battle,  and 
it  meant  greeting  the  day  of  labour  with  sick  distaste  of 
life  and  its  ingeniously  cruel  forms  of  torment.  Labour 
and  the  tired  limbs  of  labour  she  could  understand.  There 
was  a  certain  rough  nobility  in  earning  with  hands  and 
brains  the  daily  bread. 

But  the  torturing  of  the  creature  that  toiled  without 
protest  toward  a  goal  concealed  and  uncertain,  seemed 
merely  cruel.  If  meant  to  be  discipline,  it  was  both  erratic 
and  futile!  The  individual  was  pitched  into  life  like  a 
blind  puppy  into  a  pond,  to  sink  or  swim  as  it  could.  Its 
characteristics,  good,  bad  or  indifferent,  were  inborn,  its 
virtues  or  vices  instinctive.  Why  should  it  be  rewarded 
for  being  good  or  punished  for  being  bad?  Does  the 
Madonna  type  of  woman  know  anything  of  her  little 
thieving-fox  sister  of  the  slum,  steeped  in  red  sins  from 
birth? 

There  seemed  to  be  little  justice  and  less  logic  in  the 
scheme  of  things,  but  June  Ferriss  had  groped  her  way 
through  fogs  that  blinded  and  brambles  that  tore,  with 
always  the  passionate  desire  drawing  her  on — to  care! 
Just  to  care  once  to  the  full  of  brain  and  spirit  and  body! 
It  would  mean  the  perfectness  that  would  be  an  earnest 
of  the  Plan  back  of  the  chaos,  the  Compassion  back  of 
the  crucible. 

The  child  gave  her  instinct  of  motherhood  new  vitality 
to  battle  for  the  children  who  needed  it,  but  its  birth 
had  as  little  effect  upon  the  course  her  feet  followed 
as  the  fitful  breeze  that  swayed  the  bare  branches  of 
the  trees. 

Deep  within  her  life  was  a  temple  to  which  her  soul 
withdrew  from  the  hurt  of  life,  from  its  confusion  and 
turmoil.  There  it  could  creep,  as  to  sanctuary,  to  burn 
its  candles  before  the  hidden  Host  in  wordless  patience, 


The  Towers  of  Ilium 

as  in  wordless  prayer.  To  care — to  know  that  she  could 
care  to  the  core  of  her  being,  let  the  price  be  what  it 
would — this  she  had  asked.  And  through  her  clouded 
girlhood  and  all  that  had  followed,  she  had  held  to  this, 
as  the  pilgrim,  dusty  and  footsore,  passes  the  cool  groves 
and  laughing  idlers,  with  his  eyes  and  face  turned  al- 
ways to  the  Mecca  he  cannot  see. 

The  way  had  led  to  this  man,  son  of  stern  Puritans, 
reared  in  a  rigid  and  narrow  school  that  lived  up  to  the 
most  pitiless  letter  of  harsh  Mosaic  code. 

And  against  this  Puritanism  she  had  bruised  protest- 
ing arms,  battling  at  last  for  that  which  would  repay 
all  that  she  had  suffered — that  could  give  in  a  golden 
moment  that  for  which  she  had  renounced  everything. 

To  his  soul,  hers  had  called  with  sudden,  wonderful 
recognition,  and  he  had  heard  and  answered.  But  her 
Mecca  was  not  yet ! — and  the  Puritanism  of  his  fathers 
had  beaten  her  with  whips,  seven-thonged,  while  her 
faith  made  its  last  stand  with  arms  out-flung  to  shield 
the  white  temple  and  its  prayer. 

Leaning  against  the  little  gate-post,  June  Ferriss  lifted 
her  face  to  the  cold  wind.  Through  the  scudding  spin- 
drift of  clouds,  a  serene,  perfect  star  glowed  in  wonder- 
ful purity.  So  through  the  storm  had  this  man's  soul 
found  and  lifted  hers  for  one  perfect  moment,  free 
of  the  World  that  imprisoned  and  Life  that  crucified, 
and  with  his  lips  against  hers,  the  star  of  a  god  had 
risen  and  burned  whitely. 

Heart  and  body  and  spirit — the  perfectness  that  she 
had  prayed  for — had  answered  to  his,  as  her  lips  had 
answered  to  his  lips.  Her  brain  swam  now  at  the  remem- 
bered poignant  sweetness  of  it — the  warmth  of  his  arms 
that  were  the  Heaven  she  had  dreamed  of — of  his  face 
as  it  leaned  against  her  cheek — of  his  lips  as  they  found 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  371 

hers .  For  this  she  had  lived  her  "thousand  years 

of  torment." 

"And  whatever  the  price,  I  will  pay — beloved! — my 
beloved ! — I  will  pay !" 

The  great  star  burning  high  in  the  roof  of  the  night 
filled  her  eyes  with  its  glory.  Then  the  cloud-wrack 
closed  over  it.  But  she  smiled  up  at  the  coming  storm — ' 
the  dreaming  smile  of  lips  that  have  touched  the  holy 
wine  of  Love's  Grail — and  as  she  had  guarded  the  Temple 
where  prayed  her  desire,  so  now  she  stretched  out  her 
arms  and  faced  the  night  and  the  wind  that  whipped  her 
white  draperies  around  her. 

"It  was  my  moment!"  her  soul  cried  to  the  great 
Void.  "God  gave.  And  not  even  God  Himself  may 
re-roll  the  Scroll.  For  time  and  eternity — it  is  mine !" 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-TWO 

IN  his  study,  silent  as  the  silent  house,  John  Orth  read 
the  thin  sheets,  closely  written,  that  were  enclosed  in 
the  package  of  translations.  A  woman  lay  sleeping  a 
heavy  sleep  in  a  near-by  room,  and  her  stertorous  breath- 
ing had  reached  him  till  he  closed  the  door  leading  to  his 
own  wing  of  the  house. 

Now,  in  the  utter  stillness  of  the  large,  severe  looking 
room,  with  its  sombre  book-cases  of  walnut  and  its 
scientific  paraphernalia,  he  seemed  to  hear  the  approach 
of  light  child-feet  and  to  feel  a  quiet  little  figure  move 
close  against  his  elbow.  Suppose  that  she  had  lived  and 
given  battle  to  the  forces  of  life  for  the  love  that  should 
mean  Love  in  the  highest,  as  had  the  woman  he  had  left 
facing  the  night  and  the  coming  storm  with  a  glory  in 
her  eyes !  What  then  ?  The  child  had  loved  him  wholly 
and  supremely,  and  his  displeasure  had  spelled  tragedy 
and  death  for  her.  So  the  woman  had  loved  him,  wholly 
and  supremely,  reaching  pitiful  hands  to  draw  him  back 
from  the  pit  of  despair,  calling  to  his  love  to  build  life 
anew  for  Love's  dear  sake. 

Under  her  watchful  and  careful  tenderness  the  devils 
of  remorse  had  at  last  let  go.  Under  the  sharp  whip 
of  her  logic  they  had  slunk  back  into  the  troubled  shadows 
of  things  past.  And  a  warmth,  new  and  wonderful,  had 
stolen  through  his  chilled  veins,  to  summon  him  to  effort, 
to  the  insistent  claim  of  things  to  come. 

His  faith — the  faith  of  his  fathers — had  failed  him, 
after  all.  In  the  hour  of  his  agony  it  had  been  a  stone, 
comfortless  and  cold.  But  she,  pagan  and  unafraid,  had 

372 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  373 

spurned  code  and  creed  and  had  looked,  level-eyed,  to 
the  Throne  itself,  to  verify  its  promise  that  to  those  who 
loved  and  believed,  Love  itself  would  speak. 

Well,  Love  had  spoken.  Out  of  a  Hell,  dumb  and 
terrible,  it  had  called  him.  And  in  this  woman's  eyes, 
weary  but  illumined,  was  the  demand  upon  his  faith  for 
courage  to  believe  in,  and  await,  the  "after." 

He  read: 

You,  who  have  faith,  say  "Sometime  we  will  have 

what  we  have  wanted  here "  And  to  you — you, 

who  are  my  faith! — the  tired  mind  beats  always  its 
muted  "I  wonder — I  wonder " 

That  hospital  down  there  with  its  gamut  of  human 
stories — and  you,  the  man  and  mind  behind  it  all,  with 
lips  locked,  while  yet  the  very  walls  carry  to  me  what 
you  do  and  are  and  bear — you  are  the  least  real  when  fear 
steps  in,  as  you  are  the  only  thing  that  is  real  when  my 
fingers  close  on  the  small,  steady  pulse-beat  that  spells  out 
to  me  what  Life  and  God  may  mean  in  your  "sometime." 

Those  who  have  known  all  my  past  years  and  their 
story,  and  are  part  of  it  and  so  are  part  of  me — they 
are  slipping  from  me  with  terrible  regularity.  All  that 
had  been  just  part  of  the  general  mystery  and  pain  of 
things,  and  I  looked  at  the  black  curtain  that  hid  the 
Author  with  merely  wonder — until  now.  And  now  you 
have  done  what  neither  man  nor  God  had  done — you 
have  made  me  afraid. 

I  have  no  faith,  no  belief.  I  can  only  hold  my  frag- 
ments to  my  breast  and  face  Immutability  that  rims  a 
desert.  The  Cross  I  have  known  only  by  its  weight, 
never  by  its  exaltation — prayer  but  as  a  refuge  for  timid 
women  and  a  dying  priesthood.  The  Beyond  neither 
offered  nor  held  a  Heaven.  I  did  not  want  Sentiment. 


374  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

I  wanted — I  have  always  wanted — you.  But  I  am  a  part 
of  the  new  order  of  things — you  are  sternly  of  the  old. 
I  oppose  what  you  uphold,  and  I  have  suffered  as  they 
must  suffer  who  differ  with  the  majority.  And  now  I 
look  back  through  your  eyes  and  for  the  first  time  care 
to  justify  myself — and  for  the  first  time  wonder  if  I  can! 

Do  you  see  what  your  possible  "sometime"  means? — 
how,  in  battling  with  your  orthodoxy  as  I  have  done, 
I  have  battled,  not  for  my  theory,  but  for  myself! 

Would  you  in  that  "sometime"  honour  the  intent? — 
or  look  with  eyes  that  condemned  on  the  broken  work 
that  had  striven  in  new  ways  for  perfection!  The  old 
way  had  been  safer,  but  for  me  it  would  not  have  been 
honest.  What  it  has  cost  me,  you  could  not  know.  What 
would  repay  me,  you  and  your  "sometime"  hold.  This 
is  the  inter-time  of  spent  waiting  for  the  star,  or  perhaps 
for  just  the  dark. 

And  so  I  am  afraid.  I  have  nothing  to  reassure.  I 
can  see  neither  goal  nor  God,  and  I  am  afraid  of  Him 
and  His  hidden  plan  because — and  only  because — it  means 
you. 

To  buy  you  and  your  Heaven  I  would  not  change 
what  I  have  taught.  But  I  am  wondering  if  the  price 
I  have  paid,  heavy  as  it  has  been,  is  enough — the  edge 
of  things  is  so  close — the  few  more  years  of  servitude  and 
tiredness  so  soon  over — and  you,  ah,  grave  and  sweet ! — 
God's  recompense? — or  the  further  death  on  death! 

You  from  your  cliffs,  wide  and  open  and  bleak,  I  from 
the  tortuous  turning  and  doubling  of  the  harried  animal — 
you  from  the  Book,  explicit  and  uncompromising,  I 
from  shifting  Life,  fluid  and  complex  and  burdened — 
can  we  ever  meet  on  common  ground?  Knowing  all 
would  you  understand  all,  I  wonder?  If  the  girl-dreams 
were  of  castle  walls  reaching  in  white  tracery  to  the 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  375 

stars,  can  you  say  to  the  woman — "Because  of  them, 
give  me  the  broken  pieces  and  we  will  line  a  little  pool 
for  the  spring  to  fill  beside  the  road,  for  the  traveller 
and  the  birds!" 

Beloved,  beloved ! — it  is  the  little  pool  beside  the  road 
that  is  all  my  possessions!  What  I  do  and  am,  are  but 
you  and  what  beats  against  my  lips  and  aches  in  my 
breast  made  articulate.  That  the  long  way  of  pain  that 
broke  my  courage  and  my  body,  led  at  last  to  you — that 
the  weary  dissonance  was  in  the  end  crossed  and  stilled 
by  your  voice — that  the  eyes  that  had  seen  too  much, 
turning  in  sick  shrinking  from  it  all,  rested  on  you,  God's 
gentleman — all  this  is  the  wonder  that  I  watch  with  held 
breath.  You,  the  still  man  of  immeasurable  patience  and 
infinite  endurance,  strong  and  sure  as  the  cliff  that  meets 
the  storm  with  immovable  shoulder  and  thrusts  it  back, 
silent  as  the  cliff  is  silent  through  turmoil  of  petrel  and 
surf  and  gale — you,  as  you  have  been  against  the  tangled 
tapestry  of  what  went  before,  and  of  what  is  around  you 
— I  love  you  with  what  men  call  worship,  not  knowing 
then  the  height  and  depth  and  breadth  of  all  the  word 
means.  I  love  you  with  a  love  all  human  in  its  cries 
that  are  stifled  in  every  heart-beat — with  a  love  that  yet 
touches  the  hem  of  Holy  Things. 

When  he  had  read,  he  sat  a  long  time  motionless. 
Then  in  his  quietly  deliberate  way  he  folded  the  written 
sheets  carefully  and  opened  the  door  of  a  safe  concealed 
behind  a  panel  of  the  big  desk.  He  laid  the  paper  in  a 
pigeon-hole  and  opening  a  smaller  door,  took  out  a  little 
plain  gold  ring,  the  size  a  child  would  wear. 

It  was  the  first  ring  he  had  given  her  and  on  an  odd 
impulse  he  had  drawn  it  from  her  finger  just  before 
they  had  fastened  down  the  coffin  lid.  She  had  other 


376  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

rings,  with  small  jewels,  pearls  and  turquoise,  given  her 
by  relatives  and  friends,  which  she  wore  or  discarded 
as  the  whim  moved  her.  But  this  plain  little  ring  which 
had  been  what  his  taste  had  selected,  she  had  worn  al- 
ways. And  so  because  it  had  been  so  a  part  of  her,  he  had 
kept  it,  when  they  had  carried  from  him  the  little  tene- 
ment of  the  child-soul. 

The  next  night  when  he  left  the  hospital  he  went  down 
the  lane  toward  where  the  mellow  gleam  of  a  lamp 
streamed  out  from  the  Ferriss  cabin.  June  had  finished 
her  work  for  the  evening,  but  was  standing  looking  into 
the  fire  as  he  dropped  the  knocker  softly  and  opened 
the  door. 

She  did  not  speak,  but  her  hands  met  his  with  the 
tense  eloquence  that  told  of  the  ever-present  longing 
and  terror  that  marked  each  meeting  that  came  and 
passed.  Would  another  meeting  come? — and  having 
come,  would  it  be  the  last? 

"John!— John!— John  Orth!" 

There  was  a  very  passion  of  thankfulness  in  the 
breathed  words  and  it  brought  an  answering  light  in  his 
wearily  stern  face  that  softened  it  wonderfully. 

With  her  hands  in  his,  he  slipped  the  ring  on  the  little 
finger  of  her  left  hand.  "It  was — hers,"  he  said  simply. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-THREE 

'  I  AHE  winter  of  commercial  work  was  a  heavy  strain. 
-*•  It  was  necessary  to  treble  her  actual  out-put  of 
drawing,  which  was  now  mechanical  and  steady,  nerve- 
wearing  grind,  to  just  keep  the  pot  boiling. 

But  in  the  inner  temple  that  had  waited  so  long,  now 
burned  a  little  lamp  fed  with  divine  oil.  And  when  the 
yoke  pressed  hard,  when  the  body  trembled  and  gave 
under  the  strain  of  mingled  pain  and  labour,  her  soul 
turned  to  the  flame  that  illumined,  for  her,  a  Heaven. 

Mr.  Ferriss  improved  steadily,  and  as  the  winter  waned 
his  old  strength  and  mental  activity  surged  back  and  he 
began  to  chafe  to  get  into  harness. 

"There  is  June's  robin,  Kate,"  he  said  one  day  to  the 
doctor,  as  he  stood  in  the  open  doorway.  "The  ice  has 
broken  in  the  brook,  Bobby  is  back,  spring  has  come  and 
I  am  declaring  myself.  No  more  petticoat  government! 
Bruce,  Prentice  and  Bruce  are  offering  to  make  it  Bruce, 
Prentiss  and  Ferriss — senior  wants  to  retire — and  I  de- 
cline to  be  mollycoddled  by  you  female  women  and  bul- 
lied by  Orth  any  longer." 

"Mercy  me!  Ain't  he  reel  dangerous,  though!"  Dr. 
Stanley  murmured  to  June  in  awe-stricken  tones.  "Feelin' 
your  oats,  Jimmy  Ferriss?  Going  down  to  Washington 
to  tell  the  President  how  he  has  mismanaged  things 
during  your  period  of  retirement?" 

"You'll  see!" 

Mr.  Ferriss  nodded  with  deep  mystery  and  deeper  re- 
solve. 

"Well,  I  would  wait  for  the  next  car,  anyhow,  dad," 

377 


37$  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

his  daughter  advised  tranquilly.  "The  President  can  stand 
it  a  day  or  two  longer.  Keep  your  eye  on  Peter,  Kate. 
He  won't  come  in  while  the  squirrels  are  there  with  him, 
and  I  want  to  help  Nora  with  the  dinner." 

The  doctor  buttoned  up  her  loose  sack  coat  and  saun- 
tered out  to  the  path  where  she  could  watch  Peter  Pan 
and  also  the  sun  setting  in  a  blaze  of  orange  and  crimson 
behind  the  hills.  Ferriss  pulled  his  heavy  military  cape 
further  over  his  shoulders  and  joined  her. 

"So  you  are  tired  of  us?"  she  said  to  him  curtly. 

Ferriss  shook  his  head  gravely.  "No,"  he  replied.  "I 
am  not  tired.  But  I  am  wakening  out  of  a  sleep.  And 
I  am  practically  well  again.  June  insists  on  going  on 
with  her  work,  but  she  will  be  able  to  take  it  easier  and 
drop  the  grind.  She  is  going  to  'batch  it'  with  Peter 
Pan.  And  she  says  I  can't  have  Nora." 

"She  is  going  to What  on  earth  are  you  talking 

about?" 

The  doctor  wheeled  from  the  sunset,  her  shrewd  eyes 
opening  in  astonishment  behind  her  glasses  as  she  faced 
the  man  beside  her. 

"Why — just  that,"  Mr.  Ferriss  said,  meekly  explana- 
tory. "June  says  she  is  going  to  cut  loose  and  enjoy  her- 
self for  awhile,  and  that  I  can  have  a  Jap — and  you." 

"Me?" 

"Yes.  You  see,"  explained  Mr.  Ferriss  patiently.  "She 
knows  I  want  you,  and  thinks  if  she  sends  me  adrift 
you  will  feel  properly  indignant  and  sorry,  and  will  give 
up  your  nice  practice  here  and  marry  me.  Will  you, 
Kate?" 

The  whimsical  voice  became  very  earnest  as  he  moved 
close  to  her  side  and  looked  down  at  her. 

"I  am  starting  in  again  a  poor  man  and  much  in  debt 
to  that  daughter  of  mine,  who  weathered  the  storm  for 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  379 

the  two  of  us.  But  it  won't  take  long  to  rebuild — a 
better  and  finer  life,  Kate,  if  you  care  enough  for  me. 
Kate!" 

"Daddy  Jim  is  kissin'  Aunt  Kate,"  was  the  informa- 
tion that  brought  June,  her  eyes  dancing,  to  the  door. 

"And  of  course  my  son  could  have  been  heels  up  in 
the  brook,  and  you  two  none  the  wiser!"  she  informed 
the  guilt-stricken  pair  from  the  doorway.  "Have  you 
promised  to  be  my  gentle  and  obedient  step-mother, 
Katrinka  Stanley?" 

The  doctor  looked  around  one  shoulder  of  the  mili- 
tary cape  at  June,  and  then  at  her  offspring,  who  was  like 
an  overgrown  robin  in  his  scarlet  sweater. 

"Do  I  have  to  grandmother  Peter?"  she  parried. 

"Indeed,  you  do,"  June  assured  her  cheerfully.  "Take 
your  medicine  and  settle  down  to  your  knitting.  And 
you'll  have  to  stop  flirting  with  Carl  Goethe.  I'm  afraid 
he  will  call  you  out,  Jimmy!  And  your  law  trickeries 
won't  get  you  out  of  a  German  duel  so  easily,  let  me 
tell  you." 

Peter  interrupted,  planting  himself  on  the  path  with 
sturdy  little  legs  outstretched  and  an  upraised  face  of 
deep  interest. 

"Kiss  her  again,  daddy  Jim,"  he  commanded.  And 
Mr.  Ferriss,  with  gallant  and  happy  willingness,  obeyed. 

A  week  later  June  was  in  the  City,  a  guest  at  the 
Keith  home.  Her  hostess,  who  had  been  her  room-mate 
at  college,  was  in  high  feather  because  of  the  coming 
Ferriss-Stanley  wedding  and  the  "return  to  Jerusalem." 

"Why,  it  has  been  like  the  Babylonian  exile,  June 
Ferriss,"  she  cried.  She  was  in  negligee,  curled  up  in 
a  chaise-longue  in  her  dressing  room.  June  had  taken 


380  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

possession  of  the  couch  and  four  cushions  and  was  sip- 
ping tea  appreciatively.  "It  will  be  simply  ripping  to 
have  you  and  Dad  Ferriss  in  our  midst  once  more,  and 
Kate  Stanley  is  a  breeze.  That  marriage  will  be  simply 
ideal." 

June's  eyes  grew  very  tender. 

"It  will  be  ideal!  Kate  has  worked  like  a  Trojan  at 
her  practice  and  the  dad's  life  has  been  all  awry.  Now 
they  have  come  into  their  own!" 

"You're  going  to  batch?" 

June  nodded. 

"Yes,  indeedy!  The  bliss  of  turtle-doves  is  not  a  thing 
to  indulge  in  vicariously!  I  refuse  to  be  an  innocent 
bystander." 

"Well,  they  will  have  to  be  uptown,  near  us,"  Mrs. 
Keith  decided  contentedly.  "And  you  will  be  somewhere 
close,  won't  you?" 

"I  will  not,"  said  Miss  Ferriss  placidly.  "I  have  no 
intention  of  going  back  to  the  swim,  Toots.  I  am  a  hard- 
working female  and  expect  to  continue  till  I  get  rheumatiz 
in  my  joints.  The  butterfly  life  'likes  me  not,'  honey." 

Laying  down  her  tea-cup,  she  frankly  closed  her  eyes 
and  relaxed  comfortably  on  the  cushions  while  her  host- 
ess indignantly  lectured  and  tearfully  protested.  She 
did  not  argue,  but  she  knew  that  for  her  there  was  no 
return  to  idleness.  She  had  eaten  of  the  pomegranate, 
and  the  heart  of  the  world  had  opened  to  her  and  had 
shown  her  secrets  dark  and  terrible.  Out  of  those  depths 
she  could  never  return  to  the  pretty  make-believes  of 
society,  the  shallow  round  of  shallow  pleasures  and  still 
shallower  duties. 

For  her  the  lighter  interests  and  amusements  had  been 
burned  away.  In  others,  she  looked  upon  them  with  eyes 
of  tranquil  tolerance  and  utter  indifference.  They  had 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  381 

once  made  up  her  life;  but  she  had  laid  them  aside  as 
she  had  laid  the  toys  of  her  childhood,  the  vanities  of  her 
girlhood,  to  take  up  the  stern  realities  that  had  drained 
the  roses  and  laughter  from  her  face,  to  leave  there, 
instead,  the  saddened  shadows  of  Knowledge. 

While  Mrs.  Keith  expostulated,  she  was  looking  back 
to  the  cabin  on  the  hill,  to  the  shaded  lamp  and  the  still 
man  who  looked  down  at  her  with  brooding,  terribly 
patient  eyes.  The  long  years  of  silent  endurance,  the  sud- 
den tragedy,  had  done  their  work  and  he  was  breaking 
down.  He  had  turned  deaf  ears  to  brother  physicians  and 
friends,  and  they  were  watching  him  steadily  fail  with 
miserable  and  impotent  rebellion. 

And  she — the  iron  fingers  of  fear  that  held  her  heart 
were  closing  daily,  hourly,  as  she  dumbly  watched  and 
suffered. 

Was  that,  too,  to  be  part  of  the  price?  Out  of  that 
love,  built  up  of  long  endurance  and  pain,  to  turn  to  the 
trumpery  pastimes  of  those  whose  labour  was  pleasure- 
seeking  ! 

Her  wrist  was  across  her  eyes  and  her  clenched  teeth 
held  back  the  animal  moan  of  sheer  suffering  that  seemed 
as  though  it  must  suffocate  her.  Mrs.  Keith  was  babbling 
of  the  City — of  its  spell  that  would  call  her  back  to  old 
days  and  delights.  And  she  was  looking  at  the  City  and  its 
vast  emptiness  that  awaited  her,  when  the  slow  revolving 
wheels  of  Circumstance  would  carry  her  away  from 
the  hills  and  her  Desire — back  to  city  canyons  and  deso- 
lation ! 

"Senator  Rutherford  will  take  you  in — he  was  your 
grandfather's  protege,  you  remember?  He  came  up  from 
Washington  yesterday  with  that  nice  Sturm  boy,  attache 
of  the  German  legation.  He  is  coming  to  dinner,  too. 
And  the  Vances  are  coming,  and  Fred  Vaughn  and  Leila 


382  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

Bellair — she  came  out  this  winter,  and  will  have  all  the 
Bellair  money,  and  Freddy  is  in  love  with  her.  But  she 
wants  a  title.  Well,  she  can  buy  the  strawberry  leaves 
with  what  she  has,  and  Freddy  has  only  his  football 
shoulders  and  white  teeth — not  enough  for  the  price  these 
days.  The  girls  are  all  bargain  hunters !" 

The  light  babble  was  still  around  her  at  the  table  and 
she  heard  herself  joining  in  with  easy  naturalness.  She 
had  yielded  to  her  old  room-mate's  urgent  entreaties  with 
a  sudden  craving  for  the  froth  and  nonsense  that  might 
bring  temporary  forgetfulness  of  the  fear  that  gnawed 
with  cold  teeth  in  her  breast.  She  was  helpless,  and 
the  inaction  and  dread  that  must  be  hidden  from  ob- 
servant eyes  was  telling  upon  her  cruelly.  The  dinner 
was  to  have  given  her  an  hour's  respite,  but  it  had  not 
done  so,  and  while  she  forced  herself  to  talk  and  laugh, 
her  thought  was  straining  back  anxiously  to  the  quiet 
settlement  among  the  hills,  the  hospital  with  its  hourly 
gamble  of  life  and  death,  and  the  silent  man  whose  skill 
held  death  at  bay. 

"I  was  so  glad  to  hear  of  your  father's  recovery," 
Senator  Rutherford  was  saying  to  her,  when  she  desper- 
ately drew  her  thought  back  to  the  people  and  voices 
around  her.  "You  know  I  am  under  very  deep  obligation 
to  him  because  of  Judge  Ferriss.  My  mother  had  been 
the  Judge's  first  sweetheart — there  was  quite  a  romance 
of  Colonial  days  there,  I  understand.  And  the  Judge  sort 
of  foster- fathered  me  when  I  was  a  cub,  staked  me  for 
college  and  then  taught  me  law." 

"I  know — the  dad  always  looked  up  to  you  with  admir- 
ing awe.  You  had  begun  to  practise  when  he  was  a 
freshman  and  your  rapid  rise  made  you  a  hero  in  his 
eyes !" 

June  smiled  as  she  turned  to  the  distinguished  look- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  383 

ing  statesman — a  handsome  man  with  keen  black  eyes 
and  snow-white  hair.  He  smiled  in  return,  but  there  was 
a  note  of  sincere  concern  in  his  voice  as  he  replied. 

"But  I  have  been  able  to  do  absolutely  nothing  to 
make  my  obligation  rest  a  little  easier  on  my  conscience ! 
I  could  influence  an  appointment  now,  had  he  only  gone 
in  for  medicine  instead  of  the  law,  that  would  give  him 
a  round-the-globe  trip  on  a  certain  line  of  scientific  in- 
vestigation required  by  the  Herkemer  Foundation.  The 
trip  will  carry  with  it  the  entree  to  the  laboratories  of  the 
Old  World  and  give  access  to  their  most  valuable  scientific 
discoveries.  It  would  mean  about  a  year  of  interesting 
observation  and  restful  travel,  and  would  have  done  your 
father  so  much  good." 

The  pleasantly  modulated  voice  drifted  easily  on  while 
the  Senator  attended  to  the  successive  courses  of  an  en- 
joyably  prolonged  dinner.  But  in  the  softly  tempered 
light  of  the  shaded  candles,  the  woman  beside  him  was 
sitting  tensely  still,  her  head  slightly  bent,  unseeing  eyes 
fixed  on  the  roses  lying  like  a  crimson  pool  in  the  centre 
of  the  mahogany. 

She  no  longer  heard  the  voices  around  the  table.  The 
iron  fingers  around  her  heart  had  closed  in  a  sudden, 
agonising  grip  and  she  seemed  conscious  of  a  woman 
face  down  somewhere  crying,  "No,  no — not  that !" 

But  when  she  spoke  her  voice  was  quite  even  and  she 
heard  its  calm  tones  with  a  dreary  sort  of  impersonal 
wonder. 

"Would  it  be  possible  to  carry  that  sense  of  obliga- 
tion that  seems  to  trouble  you,  on  to  the  third  generation, 
Senator?" 

"You  mean ?" 

The  man  beside  her  turned  quickly  and  regarded  her 


384  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

with  interest.  She  smiled  and  raised  her  eyebrows  with 
quizzical  enquiry. 

"I  mean — would  you  permit  the  daughter  of  the  son 
of  your  preceptor  to  name  the  appointee?"  Her  smile 
faded  to  sudden  pale  gravity  and  her  eyes,  grown  strained 
and  wan,  met  his  full.  "I  mean  the  surgeon  to  whose 
skill  I  owe  my  father's  recovery." 

"Dr.  John  Orth? "  The  statesman  knitted  his 

brows  and  stared  at  his  group  of  wineglasses,  thinking 
quickly.  Under  cover  of  the  white  laces  of  her  gown,  she 
pressed  her  left  hand  against  her  side  where  the  old  pain 
stabbed  pitilessly. 

Senator  Rutherford  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"A  remarkable  man.  If  he  will  accept,  I  know  of 
no  one  better  fitted  for  the  post.  Yes,  Miss  June,  I  will 
be  very  glad  indeed  to  name  your  appointee,  and  in  nam- 
ing Dr.  Orth  I  will  be  doing  the  Foundation  an  honour. 
If  he  can  only  be  secured,  he  will  be  of  invaluable  service." 

There  was  a  pleased  warmth  in  the  stately  old  senator's 
voice,  and  June  responded  with  careful  interest  through 
the  serving  of  the  remaining  courses  of  a  dinner  now 
grown  interminable. 

The  Foundation  wished  the  mission  undertaken  at  the 
earliest  possible  date,  there  was  everything  to  be  gained 
by  a  man  of  scientific  pursuits,  it  would  be  madness  from 
every  point  of  view  for  him  to  decline,  and  while  the 
long,  laughter-  and  music-filled  evening  dragged  to  its 
close,  June  was  conscious  of  the  desperate,  strangled 
"No,  no — not  that !"  beating  up  to  her  throat  in  increasing 
protest  till,  behind  her  locked  door,  she  stood  swaying 
at  last  with  her  twisted  fingers  pressed  against  her  lips 
and  under  closed  lids  the  hot  tears  scorching  her  eyes — • 
tears  that  seared  and  scarred  as  they  were  driven  back 
to  the  sick  heart. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  385 

An  odd  little  play  she  had  once  seen  was  built  around 
a  verse  that  now  seemed  to  throb  in  the  silent  night 
around  her 

"Some  measure  love  by  gold 

Some  by  boundless  sea. 
I  love  you  well  enough  to  leave  you,  dear, 
If  needs  must  be!" 

And  she  loved  him  well  enough  to  leave  him,  to  put 
the  width  of  the  world  between  them.  And  when  the 
other  side  of  the  world  gave  him  back — if  it  did! — she 
would  be  gone.  The  City  would  have  claimed  her  and 
their  lives  would  be  as  far  apart  as  the  poles. 

"Not  yet !"  the  human  side  of  her  was  crying 

with  desperate  pleading  for  time,  for  respite.  But  the 
soul  of  her  was  giving  him  up  with  supreme  finality, 
finding  the  justification  of  its  love  in  that  love's  supreme 
renunciation. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-FOUR 

WITHIN  a  week  she  heard  from  Dr.  Goethe  of  the 
appointment  tendered  the  surgeon  and  of  his 
apathy. 

"He  is  a  very  sick  man  and  he  will  die  if  he  cannot 
be  roused,"  the  big,  worried  German  exclaimed,  storm- 
ing up  and  down  the  floor  of  the  little  cabin  and  pulling 
up  his  sleeves,  as  was  his  wont  when  a  complicated  case 
called  to  his  fighting  blood.  "To  get  away  for  a  year 
will  bring  him  back  to  us  with  his  powers  trebled.  We 
need  him.  We  must  have  him.  I  want  to  take  him  by 
force — with  handcuffs.  I  plead!  I  scold!  Yah!  He 
looks  at  me  and  is  silent.  You  cannot  argue  with  a  silent 
man.  You  can  only  beat  him.  It  may  be  yet  that  I  will 
beat  him !" 

The  doctor  stormed  angrily  away  and  the  woman, 
left  alone,  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  her 
face  in  her  hands.  Her  task  was  not  yet  done !  Heart- 
sick, cowering  as  she  was  before  the  vast  desolation  that 
was  moving  slowly  and  inexorably  toward  her,  she  must 
still  fight  for  that  which  would  shorten  the  time.  Coward- 
ice whispered,  "What  need?"  Why  not  hoard  the  golden 
days  and  drift  with  the  tide?  Why  rob  her  heart  of  that 
upon  which  it  now  lived  so  richly  and  wonderfully — 
why  hasten  the  day  of  its  beggary  and  insuperable  painl 
And  for  what?  For  only  a  chance,  after  all — the  chance 
that  would  bring  him  back  to  a  world  that  would  no 
longer  be  her  world. 

She  moved  draggingly  to  the  desk,  then  stood  there 
with  her  hand  on  her  throat.  She  was  wondering  what 

386 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  387 

new  form  of  torture  Life  could  still  invent!     The  long, 
long  way  of  pain  had  led  to  her  moment — and  then  to  this. 

To  her  moment ! 

Her  head  lifted,  and  startled  at  the  sudden  reminder, 
she  pressed  the  hand  with  its  little  strip  of  gold  hard 
against  her  lips.  She  had  agreed  to  pay ! 

She  wrote  far  into  the  night,  mercilessly  swinging  the 
knout  of  accusation  and  denunciation  over  him,  sparing 
him  nothing  that  might  cut  through  the  heavy  lethargy 
that  enveloped  and  stupefied  him  with  its  miasmic 
fumes : — > 

The  mind  that  is  both  broad  and  conscientious  some- 
times misses  the  obvious.  You  have  striven  for  a  diffi- 
cult thing,  for  the  expression  of  an  ideal  as  impractical 
as  it  is  extreme.  It  is  the  ideal  of  the  ascetic,  of  the 
flagellant — the  unhealthy  growth  of  cloister  damp  and 
chill.  It  is  rooted  in  dead  years  and  forgotten  laws.  It 
kills  life's  blossoms  and  colour — it  hangs  lifeless  as  the 
grey  mosses  of  Southern  swamps,  swinging  like  the  hair 
of  dead  women  whose  hearts  had  broken.  To  this  im- 
possible ideal  you  have  offered  up  your  own  body  and 
heart — a  very  terrible  price  for  an  empty  and  untenable 
theory. 

You  entered  into  a  contract,  once  upon  a  time,  in 
good  faith.  That  contract  has  been  dishonoured  and 
destroyed.  Man-instituted  and  Man-authorised,  you  have 
still  clung  to  the  letter  of  it,  when  outraged  Nature  herself 
has  risen  and  branded  it  unholy.  It  has  drained  the 
blood  from  your  veins  and  will  give  to  the  Earth  a  corpse, 
while  Life  cries  aloud  for  men.  Is  that  what  your  God 
means  in  His  divine  economy?  Do  you  think  the  world 
will  be  better  and  happier  because  of  this  immense  sacrifice 
for  a  dry  gourd  ?  Whom  do  you  benefit  ?  Does  the  fast- 


388  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

ing  monk,  grown  drunk  on  his  own  fanaticism,  minister 
to  the  world?  Do  you,  the  priest,  or  I,  the  pagan — 
you,  the  martyr,  or  I,  the  fighter,  help  the  more,  where 
help  and  guidance  are  needed! 

Once  I,  too,  was  dying,  my  strength  was  sapped,  and 
I  whipped  my  body  up  to  its  feet  and  into  harness.  I 
had  neither  your  creed  nor  your  God  to  teach  me  Duty, 
but  my  gods  of  the  winds  and  waves  and  of  freedom 
pointed  to  where  work  meant  more  than  prayer.  I  had 
not  your  altar  calling  for  sacrifice  and  offering  blood- 
money  in  harp  and  crown,  but  I  laid  my  body  and  its 
pain  down  for  a  bridge  for  timid  and  uncertain  feet  to 
pass  over,  to  surer  ways  and  clearer  paths. 

We  are  not  pawns,  you  and  I.  We  are  of  those  few 
who  move  lives  we  touch,  for  good  or  ill.  We  are  the 
players  of  the  game,  in  a  world  of  flesh  and  blood  and 
hearts  and  souls.  And  the  lives  are  black  as  well  as 
white,  that  I  reach.  Are  they  not  His?  Or  wculd  He 
honour  you  more  for  sinking  into  lethargy  and  death 
as  you  are  doing  under-  a  miasmic  law,  spawned  into 
being  when  property  wedded  expediency? 

Whom  God  hath  joined  together  no  man  can  put 
asunder.  And  the  adultery  of  soul  is  what  has  called 
down  the  thunders  of  Sinai — the  adultery  that  Man  and 
Expediency  have  called  law,  that  they  have  dared  attrib- 
ute to  a  clean  God  and  that  has  brought  the  church  rot- 
ting and  crumbling  around  their  feet. 

The  seed  of  those  who  burned  witches  to  the  glory  of 
the  God  of  Love  gave  you  birth,  but  your  brain  has 
battled  up  through  their  blood-lust  to  a  day  scientific 
and  sane.  You  have  looked  into  the  eyes  of  Truth,  grave 
and  terrible  and  accusing,  and  you  have  read  there  that 
Life  is  large,  its  need  appalling — that  Duty  is  colossal. 
Your  little  walled  garden  no  longer  limits  your  intel- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  389 

ligence — your  little  majolica  idols  are  overturned.  You 
know. 

But  you  are  tired — tired  to  the  core.  So  you  pull 
the  rags  of  your  religion  around  you  and  shut  your  eyes 
to  the  terrible,  nude  Truth,  and  drift. 

And  I  cannot,  you  see.  I  have  met  Pan  face  to  face. 
And  the  legend  teaches  that  to  see  him  is  to  go  mad 
or  die  or  see  all  the  sorrow  of  the  world.  And  my 
brain  keeps  sane  and  my  body  obedient  to  the  whip  and 
so  I  must  go  on.  And  all  the  sorrow  of  all  the  world 
distils  its  acid  in  slow  tears  in  my  heart  as  each  day 
passes.  I,  too,  am  tired — tired  to  the  core.  But  I  cannot 
drift.  I  must  know  the  sorrow  and  add  it  to  my  own 
weariness  and  keep  back  with  a  smile  the  very  human 
"How  long,  O,  God >!"  And  as  refinement  upon  re- 
finement of  pain,  I  must  watch  you  going  out  with  the 
tide — going  on  to  where  wait  the  Delectable  Isles,  my 
dear! — slipping  your  wrists  out  of  the  fetters,  not  to 
work  with  me,  as  you  have  done,  but  to  escape  from  it 
all — while  I  go  on  and  do  my  work  alone. 

I,  with  my  Epicurean  absence  of  fear,  with  my  Epi- 
curean appreciation  of  the  little  liqueur  glass  of  liquid 
that  would  so  gently  and  graciously  give  the  Solution  and 
its  benison  of  great  peace — oddly  enough  am  held  to  the 
yoke  by  my  heathen  deities  where  your  Christus  fails. 
A  poor  commentary  on  the  Cross  and  its  Lesson — on  the 
pierced  Feet  and  their  Story! 

You  have  demonstrated  that  a  starved  and  imprisoned 
life  means  death — as  a  plant  without  sunlight  or  warmth 
dies.  But  you  take  unction  to  your  soul  that  suicide  pas- 
sive is  not  sin.  You  lash  a  dead  belief  to  your  back, 
as  they  lashed  dead  and  living  prisoners  together  of 
old,  and  you  ticket  it  Duty,  knowing  all  the  while  that 
it  means  escape.  I  am  not  clever  in  Jesuitical  subtleties. 


390  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

For  me  there  is  but  the  road,  long  and  dusty  and  thorn- 
hedged. 

Do  you  think  your  God  will  be  less  blind  than  your 
little  world  of  people  who  watch  you  in  futile  protest? 
Do  you  think  that  He,  as  they,  cannot  see  that  you  are 
simply  sick  of  things  and  prefer  getting  out  to  taking 
action?  With  all  your  splendid  powers  and  possibilities 
you  deliberately  and  knowingly  lay  down  your  life  as 
though  it  were  a  worthless  thing,  for  an  idea  that  would 
be  monstrous  were  it  not  farcical.  Do  you  think  your 
Calvinistic  and  obsolete  excuses  will  appeal  to  inexorable 
Intelligence?  Will  your  record  match  mine,  after  all,  in 
the  final  summing  up  ? 

I  have  been  grateful  to  Life  for  giving  me  just  the 
fragments  of  the  last  year.  To  look  past  other  eyes 
and  meet  the  flash  of  understanding  in  yours — to  feel  the 
strength  that  flowed  as  wine  from  clasped  fingers  to 
wrist — that  has  been  largesse  from  a  Throne  of  Mercy 
for  which  my  very  soul  has  knelt  and  given  thanks. 
With  the  fragments  I  was  content  and  was  more  than 
content  to  work.  What  you  gave,  I  gave  out  again 
ten-fold  to  others.  And  to  go  on  working,  so,  was  my 
prayer. 

But  over  this  you  are  drawing  the  abomination  of  deso- 
lation. For  you  await  the  Delectable  Isles,  but  as  you 
go  on  to  them  you  are  killing  by  inches  the  heart  in  a  body 
that  must  go  on  living.  I  am  helpless,  and  I  am  suffer- 
ing as  I  would  not  permit  an  animal  that  loved  me  to 

suffer.  For  I  am  tied — tied •!  For  you  the  drifting 

and  the  quiet  shadows — but  for  me,  the  work  and  the 
dead  thing  in  my  breast  that  tortures  and  clamours  for 
burial. 

The  brutality  of  every  phase  of  it — the  unfathomable 
pain  and  loneliness  that  stretch  out  and  blacken  the 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  391 

horizon  from  edge  to  edge,  the  darkness  that  aches  and 
aches  and  knows  neither  star  nor  dawn,  the  appalling 
hunger  of  heart  and  mind  and  soul — have  you  any  faint- 
est conception  of  this  Hell  that  you  are  building  around 
me  with  the  hands  yet  warm  from  my  lips!  Have  the 
people  who  need  you  and  trust  you — 'the  woman  who, 
through  you,  saw  Love  in  the  Highest,  no  claim?  They 
ask  of  you  only  that  you  live  and  help  them  to,  in  turn, 

serve  you — only  that !    Is  it  so  much  they  ask !  poor 

people  and  poor  woman ! 

Ah,  I  love  you  so! — I  love  you  so!  And  you  are 
crucifying  that  love  head  downward  on  a  cross!  I  love 
you  with  every  breath  that  chokes  in  my  throat  and  that 
sands  my  lips  as  the  air  thickens  around  me  with  new 
fear  and  more  bitter  hopelessness.  I  have  bought  my 
"fragments"  with  such  a  price — with  pain  and  tragedy 
and  poverty  and  labour — and  I  was  so  grateful  for  this 
great  and  wonderful  thing  that  came  as  a  Voice  that 
reassured  and  comforted.  It  was  my  reconciliation  with 
One  misunderstood.  And  of  Pain  was  born  a  great 
sweetness  and  great  peace.  And  now  to  turn  from  this 
to  chaos — beloved!  beloved!  be  merciful! 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-FIVE 

'IP  WO  days  passed — "crawled  like  a  weed-clogged 
•*•  wave."  Matters  in  the  mill  district  claimed  every 
moment  she  could  give  from  her  work,  but  while  she 
mechanically  busied  mind  and  body,  her  spirit  seemed 
a  thing  apart.  There  was  the  old,  uncanny  sense  of 
dual  personality — of  another  woman  aloof  and  tense, 
clinging  to  a  rock  and  facing  the  whips  of  the  storm 
while  she  strained  every  nerve  to  listen. 

The  mill-folk  were  not  the  plaintive  sad-eyed  charac- 
ters of  favourite  magazine  stories.  The  "little  mothers" 
with  their  crying  children  clinging  to  their  skirts,  so 
familiar  in  the  newspapers,  were  mostly  sullen  and  gen- 
erally slattern  and  the  children  felt  the  weight  of  a  heavy 
hand  when  their  cries  became  annoying.  June  Ferriss 
had  little  patience  with  the  "Lady  Bountiful"  role,  but 
while  helping  the  women  through  crises  that  found  them 
terror-stricken  and  helpless,  she  was  enabled  to  whip  up 
the  pride,  active  or  latent  in  every  woman's  heart,  that  she 
found  more  practical  and  lasting  in  its  results  than  any- 
thing moral  teaching  could  reach. 

Pride  of  appearance  and  of  the  house — this  she  used 
as  the  leaven  that  worked  up  and  around  to  better  things. 
And  in  the  gradual  improvement  of  the  mill  homes  she 
found  a  satisfaction  that  did  not  cavil  at  methods.  Re- 
spectable bodies  were  a  healthful  stimulus  to  respectable 
minds,  and  when  she  had  induced  a  woman  to  do  her  hair 
becomingly  and  get  something  white  around  her  throat, 
she  was  reasonably  certain  that  the  rest  would  follow. 

"When  are  you  going  to  have  Tommy's  throat  oper- 

392 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  393 

ated  on  ?  He  would  be  a  youngster  you  could  be  proud 
of  if  he  could  keep  his  mouth  closed,  Sally!" — this  to 
Mrs.  Perkins,  mother  of  five. 

"Do  ye  say  now,  Miss  June!  An'  Tommy  do  look 
like  his  pa  did — a  fine,  strappin'  lad  he  was,  too!  Dr. 
Orth  saw  Tommy  this  mornin'  at  the  hospital  and  he 
has  arranged  for  that  nice  Dr.  Eaton  to  operate  soon — 
Dr.  Orth  is  going  away  for  a  year,  he  says.  An'  its 
God's  blessin',  for  he's  the  sick  man!" 

June  leaned  down  over  the  fifth  Perkins,  who  was  in 
her  lap  while  she  trimmed  her  ragged  locks  into  a  smart 
Buster  Brown  cut.  There  was  a  thrumming  in  her  ears 
and  she  pressed  her  lips  to  the  little  golden  head  she  had 
just  shampooed. 

She  had  won,  then!    And  he  was  going. 

The  rest  of  the  day,  and  the  days  that  followed,  were 
a  dream.  She  knew  that  she  was  working  and  talking 
and  acting  naturally,  but  the  woman  who  had  been  listen- 
ing for  the  message  out  of  the  storm  was  now  watching, 
waiting,  in  immeasurable  thankfulness  and  dumb  suffer- 
ing. 

At  last  he  came  to  the  little  cabin  and  stood  looking 
down  at  her  with  his  strange,  steady  gaze.  It  was, 
she  knew,  "the  parting  of  the  ways"  and  in  silence  she 
gathered  the  two  skilled,  quiet  hands  against  her  breast 
and  held  them  there,  while  she  looked  at  his  face  with 
aching  eyes.  She  must  remember  its  every  line — the 
mask-like  repression  and  just  the  way  the  soul  of  the  man, 
at  long  intervals,  pressed  through  with  its  wonderful 
grave  sweetness,  softening  the  grey  mask  into  warm 
humanness. 

She  must  remember,  because  already  she  had  learned 
the  baffling  trick  memory  had  of  recording  minute  de- 


394  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

tails  of  unimportant  things,  and  at  the  same  time  failing 
miserably  in  others  that  colour  all  life. 

Turning  the  left  hand  on  hers,  she  bent  and  pressed 
her  lips  to  the  palm  for  a  long  time,  fighting  back  the 
sick  despair  that  was  overwhelming  her,  trying  to  hold 
herself  sane  and  still  for  the  time  left  to  her  to  see  him, 
to  hold  him,  the  man,  before  he  should  become  just 
the  memory. 

The  colour  was  drained  out  of  her  face  with  the  tor- 
ture of  it,  when  she  at  last  lifted  her  head.  Her  eyes 
reached  up  to  his  with  a  prayer  in  which  the  agony  of 
all  that  had  been,  of  all  that  was  to  come,  seemed  cen- 
tred. The  Destiny  that  had  brought  them  together  was 
now  putting  them  apart — and  yet  life  must  go  on. 

Something  of  this  she  saw  in  his  eyes.  Through  the 
stoic-calm  of  a  life  of  long  and  stern  discipline,  a  soul 
human  and  starved  looked  out,  and  to  it  she  cried  in  sud- 
den and  great  bitterness — "Say  that  you  care!" 

"June,  I  do!" 

His  hands  twisted  around  hers  tightly — the  lips,  iron- 
locked,  spoke  at  last  and  the  two,  primal  man  and  primal 
woman,  put  from  them,  for  the  crucial  moment  that  held 
in  it  the  finality  and  pain  of  Death  itself,  the  lesser  gods. 

With  bruised  arms  she  had  beaten  against  barricades 
— 'ancestry,  church,  social  code — the  gods  brutal  and  false 
that  would  hold  from  her  that  which  her  soul  had  striven 
for  through  long  travail.  And  on  the  edge  of  despair, 
the  barricades  had  sullenly  yielded. 

Night  was  at  hand,  but  the  ineffable  splendour  of 
sunset  swept  its  glory  into  her  white  face.  The  lode- 
star had  not  been  in  vain — there  was  a  God  back  of  the 
plan . 

In  silence  he  bent  over  her  and  she  felt  his  lips  on  hers. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-SIX 

THE  City  was  warm  with  the  heat  of  midsummer. 
Its  pavements  were  sluiced  from  corner  hydrants, 
its  scantily  clothed  youth  frolicked  gladsomely  in  the 
generous  shower  and  its  horses  stepped  daintily  into  the 
spray  and  inhaled  its  coolness  into  hot  and  dusty  nostrils. 

Evening  tempered  the  heat  agreeably  and  in  June  Fer- 
riss's  apartment  on  the  seventh  floor  it  was  cool.  A  breeze 
blew  through  the  open  windows,  and  in  her  living  room 
the  moonlight  flooded  the  bay  window,  its  serene  loveli- 
ness undisturbed  by  two  shaded  candles  on  an  old  ma- 
hogany writing  desk. 

A  couch  drawn  across  one  side  o*f  the  bay,  and  the  low 
easy  wicker  chairs,  were  all  covered  with  chintz  in  sub- 
dued colourings.  Boxes  of  mignonette  in  the  window 
gave  their  perfume  to  the  little  vagrant  puffs  of  air  that 
played  with  the  casement  curtains. 

June  Ferriss  in  a  thin  and  very  simple  gown  of  white, 
half  lay  across  the  pile  of  cushions  on  the  couch,  her 
elbows  sunk  in  the  down  and  her  chin  on  her  interlaced 
fingers.  From  where  she  lay  she  could  look  down  on  the 
myriad  lights  of  the  City,  vivid  and  scintillant,  and  up 
to  the  hushed  calm  of  many  stars,  very  old  and  austerely 
aloof  from  the  tinsel  brilliance  of  the  little  whirling 
planet. 

Presently  she  heard  Nora  admit  a  guest  and,  without 
changing  her  position,  she  looked  around  with  a  little 
smile  of  greeting  in  her  eyes. 

The  man  who  entered  pulled  a  chair  into  the  bay, 
stretched  himself  out  in  it  with  a  tired  sigh  and  with  a 

395 


396  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

brief — "With  your  permission !" — lighted  a  cigar.  Under 
her  languidly  lowered  lids  she  looked  at  the  flecks  of 
crimson  across  his  face,  evident  even  in  the  moonlight, 
against  the  pallor  of  heat  and  weariness. 

Rising  quietly  she  brought  a  little  squat  bottle  of  In- 
dian workmanship  from  her  desk,  and  from  it  dabbled 
some  lavender  water  on  her  handkerchief.  Then  she 
leaned  on  the  back  of  his  wicker  chair  and  slowly  patted 
the  cool  and  damply  fragrant  linen  over  his  temples  and 
face. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  the  hand  holding  the  cigar 
dropped  inertly  on  the  chair  arm.  Slowly,  monotonously, 
the  little  cool  touches  moved  over  his  face,  brushing  down 
over  his  eyelids  very  lightly,  pausing  on  the  temples, 
where  the  veins  were  knotted,  with  steady  pressure,  pass- 
ing gently  down  over  cheek  and  chin  and  throat. 

Presently,  with  a  long  breath,  he  drew  the  cool  fingers 
to  his  lips.  When  he  released  them,  she  went  quietly  back 
to  her  cushions.  Then  he  laid  aside  his  cigar  and  leaned 
forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  hands  clasped. 

"You  are  an  odd  woman,  Altcsse.  You  are  very  gen- 
tle, restful,  and  yet " 

Her  gaze  withdrew  a  little  reluctantly  from  the  night 
sky  and  turned  to  his  meditatively.  It  was  a  strong  face 
she  looked  at — the  face  of  Henry  A.  Calhoun,  lawyer.  It 
was  the  face  of  a  man  who  would  have  power  and  who 
would  use  it  perhaps  none  too  gently. 

The  chin  was  square,  the  mouth  firm  and  a  little  cruel 
— the  cruelty  of  power  that  uses  the  weaker  for  his  tools, 
while  indifferently  contemptuous  of  their  weakness. 

Henry  Calhoun  had  declined  judgeships  and  other  elec- 
tive offices.  His  broad  shoulders  always  shook  off  the 
yoke  of  party.  He  was  a  political  power,  but  he  used 
the  party  instead  of  the  party  using  him. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  397 

In  that  indeterminate  age  between  forty  and  fifty 
years,  he  was  unmarried.  Very  few  women  interested 
him.  The  rest  he  classed  with  the  non-voting  citizens — 
the  children  and  idiots. 

June  Ferriss  waited  in  silence,  and  after  a  contempla- 
tive pause  he  continued — "And  yet  your  gentleness  covers 
paradoxical  qualities  that  are  hard  to  classify.  You  are 
at  once  a  rebel  and  a  prig.  You  have  extraordinary  good 
sense  and  yet  you  are  an  extremist." 

His  straight,  heavy  brows  drew  together  over  his 
strongly  chiselled  nose,  and  he  looked  down  into  her 
calm  eyes  frowningly. 

"You  are  always  going  against  the  current.  And  the 
crocks  and  jars  floating  down  bruise  you.  Why  don't 
you  float  with  them  and  manipulate  them  into  the  shoals 
and  eddies  you  wish  to  use  them  in?  That  is  strategy 
and  strategy  is  the  easiest  way.  You  have  brains.  Brains 
always  mount  on  the  shoulders  of  the  crocks,  and  use 
the  clumsy  jars  for  stepping  stones.  Why  break  your 
heart  and  your  strength  going  against  them?" 

"Is  the  way  they  are  going  always  the  right  way  ?"  she 
asked. 

"Make  them  think  it  is  and  switch  them  into  your  way. 
That  is  what  brains  are  given  us  for.  There  will  always 
be  the  mob  and  the  few  who  own  the  mob,  body  and  soul. 
Whether  it  is  the  Czar  of  all  the  Russias  or  Gompers — 
they  have  to  be  owned  by  somebody.  If  you  don't  own 
your  own  mob,  some  one  else  will.  You  are  trying 
to  teach  them  to  think.  They  can't  think.  They  can 
only  feel.  You  are  trying  to  show  them  how  to  go  it 
alone.  They  don't  want  to.  They  hate  a  master,  but 
they  want  one. 

"The  mob  recognises  its  own  limitations  just  enough 
to  know  what  it  lacks  and  to  hate  Intelligence.  But 


398  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

Intelligence  can  be  its  master  and  they  will  obey  it  as 
long  as  they  are  kept  under  the  whip.  You  can't  make 
analysts  out  of  the  bovine  type.  You  only  teach  them 
enough  to  make  them  restless.  And  you  are  wasting  your 
time." 

"Almost  thou  makest  me  to  believe !" 

He  watched  the  faint,  baffling  smile  that  came  into  her 
eyes — the  smile  that  he  could  never  fathom  to  his  entire 
satisfaction. 

"Your  glittering  generalities  are  very  convincing. 
Generalities  always  are.  So  is  circumstantial  evidence. 
But  they  do  not  prove  anything,  do  they?" 

Twisting  a  little,  she  stretched  her  arms  out  across 
the  cushions  and  lifted  her  head,  facing  him. 

"I  have  watched  you  with  your  juries.  I  have  watched 
you  play  upon  them  and  make  them  see  your  word-paint- 
ings in  just  the  colours  and  lines  you  wanted  them  to. 
And  I  always  admired  the  artistry.  But  I  know  the 
artist,  you  see." 

Reaching  over  to  her  desk,  she  drew  one  of  the  candles 
closer  and  picked  up  a  magazine.  A  dagger  of  hammered 
metal  was  marking  a  place. 

"This  is  an  article  on  Mob  rule.  Le  Bon  takes  the 
People  en  bloc  as  you  do. — ''Le  Bon  has  the  greatest  con- 
tempt for  the  crowd,  for  the  people.'  "  she  read.  "  'Democ- 
racy is  the  anonymous  tyranny — more  terrible,  more 
vindictive,  more  vengeful  than  any  absolute  monarchy, 
where  a  head  or  heads  may  be  reached  with  a  bomb. 

'Democracy  is  the  divinisation  of  Opinion,  and  Opinion 
is  always  a  Caligula. 

'The  Crowd  is  the  hydra  that  the  Strong  Man,  the 
Superior  Man,  must  either  slay  or  cajole — or  be  slain 
by  it.  There  is  no  incompetency  like  the  incompetency  of 
the  majority. 


THe  Towers  of  Ilium  399 

'There  is  no  ignorance  equal  to  mob  ignorance. 

'The  great  masses  of  mankind  have  not  even  risen  to 
the  level  of  being  good  servants.  They  have  never 
learned  the  first  step  that  points  to  dominion — service. 

'Born  to  be  graceless  flunkeys,  the  People  aspire  to 
Olympus. 

'Holding  within  themselves  the  seed  of  every  tyranny, 
every  absurdity,  every  hypocrisy,  every  diabolism,  every 
form  of  slavery,  they  seek,  by  amalgamating  and  a  closer 
herding,  the  miracle  of  transfiguration. 

'Bottom  believes  that  million  million  Bottoms  will  make 
him  one  of  the  elect.  Vox  populi,  vox  Dei ! — was  there 
ever  a  greater  libel  on  the  Lord ! 

'Democracy,  which  is  the  aspiration  to  mediocrity,  must 
always  fail,  because  there  is  a  psychological  hierarchy  as 
well  as  a  physical,  geological  and  aesthetic  hierarchy.  Bad 
worships  Better,  and  Better  is  enamoured  of  Best. 

'This  is  written  in  the  tissues  and  the  corpuscles  of  man. 

'Democracy  must  always  fail  because  man  is  a  religious 
animal — he  worships  instinctively  what  is  above  him — 
that  which  equals  him  has  no  power  over  him. 

'A  democracy  begins  to  totter  at  the  very  moment  it 
seems  to  be  successful.  The  great  undertow  toward  the 
concrete  ruler  is  felt.' ' 

"Well?" 

"Well,  I  influence  people,"  she  said  slowly.  "And  be- 
cause I  do,  I  try  to  put  myself  in  the  witness  stand 
occasionally  and  find  out  just  what  motive  is  behind 
the  influence  I  am  using  at  that  particular  time.  You 
mass  the  mob,  and  you  concede  that  your  motive  is 
power.  Your  power  is  not  necessarily  evil,  but  it  is  power 
just  the  same.  It  tightens  the  manacles.  While  I — < — " 

She  relaxed  a  little  among  the  cushions  and  leaned 
her  head  against  the  high  back  of  the  couch. 


400  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

"I  separate  the  mob  and  see  the  individuals.  And  I 
find  the  individuals  are  pretty  much  the  same  there  as 
those  on  what  we  call  the  higher  plane.  Oh,  I  see  their 
faults!  I  have  no  illusions.  But  their  littlenesses  and 
meannesses  and  evil  passions  are  no  worse  than  ours 
after  all.  They  are  only  cruder,  rougher.  And  we  have 
less  excuse,  have  we  not?" 

"On  the  principle  that  knowledge  is  a  sort  of  suit  of 
chain  mail  against  the  passions?  If  our  Heavens  are 
higher,  our  Hells  are  deeper!" 

"But  our  Heavens  are  higher,  you  see,"  she  quietly  in- 
sisted. "And  our  intelligence  is  an  advantage  because 
through  it  we  see  consequences.  The  poor,  stumbling 
mob  does  not.  It  only  sees  the  affair  of  the  moment. 
Women  of  our  class  do  not  become  common  women. 
Beyond  the  gold  and  glitter  they  see  the  consequences 
and  it  is  not  moral  training  that  keeps  them  decent — 
it  is  their  good  taste.  The  life  of  a  common  woman 
would  be  as  offensive  and  impossible  as  an  unclean  bath. 
And  because  there  is  no  appeal  for  us  in  that  sort  of 
life,  I  do  not  see  where  we  may  claim  any  great  credit 
for  keeping  out  of  it. 

"But  there  are  women  of  my  class  who  are  profligate — 
who  are  wanton,  but  cautious!  They  revel  in  'affairs' 
and  skim  along  the  edge  of  dishonour.  They  give  rein  to 
their  passions  up  to  a  certain  point,  and  because  both 
caution  and  cowardice  keep  them  from  passing  that 
point,  they  call  themselves  virtuous.  Are  they?  What 
is  virtue?  Are  these  women  of  Society  who  deny  them- 
selves nothing  but  the  actual  crossing  of  the  Rubicon, 
better  than  the  grey-lived  little  drudge  whose  young  man 
is  too  poor  for  marriage  and  who  drifts  where  her  shabby 
little  romance  beckons? 

"You  and  Le  Bon  revel  in  your  glittering  generalities, 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  401 

and  you  are  very  epigrammatic  and  clever,  and  your  kind 
of  people  think  it  clever  to  agree  with  you.  But  that 
is  where  you  and  Le  Bon  prostitute  your  talent.  Clever- 
ness is  not  truth.  This  mob  that  you  despise  is  of  all 
grades  and  conditions,  just  as  are  the  people  of  our  class. 
We  are  no  better  than  they  are.  We  are  only  better  bred. 
They  are  no  worse  than  we  are.  They  are  only  more 
ignorant.  I  know  them  personally,  girls  and  women, 
boys  and  men.  You  don't.  They  do  not  interest  you  and 
you  leave  them  and  their  problems  to  your  underlings. 
And  then  you  polish  your  wit  upon  them  and  Le  Bon 
writes  epigrams. 

"I  don't,  because  I  have  lived  among  them.  I  would 
have  the  right  to  denounce,  because  I  would  speak  with 
authority.  Your  kind  has  not  the  right.  Your  attitude 
is  dishonest  and  your  epigrams  are  untrue." 

Henry  Calhoun  listened  to  the  languid,  dispassionate 
voice  as  it  quietly  picked  up  and  riddled  his  opinions — 
opinions  listened  to  with  respect  and  deference  as  those  of 
a  legal  luminary  and  a  political  power,  by  persons  and 
personages  of  the  big  world  where  history  is  made.  The 
long,  hot  day  in  offices  where  great  issues  held  him 
prisoner  to  the  City,  had  fagged  him,  and  as  the  mol- 
ten ball  of  brass  setting  angrily  in  the  West  sent  its  last 
fierce  rays  across  his  desk,  his  thought  kept  reaching  out 
to  the  quiet  woman  who  never  failed  him  when  his  nerves 
twanged  viciously.  She  always  rested  and  at  the  same 
time  stimulated  him.  She  opposed  him  in  some  of  the 
political  plays,  she  disagreed  with  him  on  many  subjects, 
she  knew  when  her  presence  and  silence  rested  him,  and 
when  his  restless  brain  was  again  ready  for  battle. 

This  psychic  understanding,  this  sixth  sense,  brought 
him  to  her  eagerly  and  held  him— rnvhile  she  flouted  him 
with  her  cool  disdain  and  tranquil  impertinences — de- 


402  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

voutly  thanking  his  gods  for  her  quiet  nearness  and  deli- 
cate elusiveness. 

Now  he  leaned  forward  with  his  hand  on  the  couch 
beside  her  head,  the  strong,  muscular  arm  in  its  white 
flannel  close  to  her  cheek. 

"How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  waste  all  that  on 
the  hoi  polloi?"  he  asked.  "Because  it  is  wasted,  you 
know.  I  want  you.  I  have  wanted  you  ever  since  that 
night  two  years  ago  that  I  met  you  at  the  Keiths'.  You 
are  giving  your  brain  and  your  strength  to  our  brethren 
of  the  'submerged  tenth'  and  you  try  not  to  know  that 
they  do  not  thank  you.  You  try  to  see  them  as  you  wish 
they  were,  not  as  they  are.  Your  own  caste  are  not 
angels,  but  they  do  not  drain  you  and  then  turn  upon  you 
as  is  the  pleasant  little  habit  of  the  mob.  I  do  not  need 
to  remind  you  of  Christ  and  Savonarola  and  Lincoln 
and  the  rest.  Human  nature  does  not  change.  You 
can't  make  it  over  and  your  battling  upstream  doesn't  take 
you  far  nor  help  many  of  the  crocks.  I  want  you.  Give 
this  up  and  come  back  to  me — to  your  own  people.  I 
want  you! " 

The  voice  that  she  had  listened  to  as  it  held  thousands 
silent  in  great  convention  halls — the  voice  that  "carried" 
with  ease  to  far  galleries  and  that  played  with  the  emo- 
tions of  audiences  with  masterful  finish — softened  won- 
derfully, its  very  note  of  confident  and  cruel  power  giv- 
ing the  tenderness  that  now  pleaded  a  dangerous  charm. 

"I  want  you,  June.  I  want  you  with  me  where  the 
effort  is  worth  while.  The  factories  and  the  mills  and 
the  sweatshops  have  their  agitators.  They  want  red 
fire  and  rioting,  spread-eagle  oratory  and  torch-lights. 
You  are  as  high  above  all  that  as  the  stars  are  above 
their  cheap  sky-rockets.  They  use  you  and  exhaust  you, 
and  when  you  are  broken  they  will  forget  you.  We  love 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  403 

you,  we  who  are  your  own  people.  Come  back  to  us — 
with  me,  sweet!" 

The  white  flannel  coat  sleeve  was  against  her  cheek 
and  the  superb  vitality  of  the  man  played  around  her  in 
magnetised  waves.  For  two  years  he  had  steadily  op- 
posed her  work  and  fought  down  her  arguments  with  his 
virile  logic. 

With  him  were  ranged  James  Ferriss  and  his  wife 
and  her  friends.  The  few  whose  sympathies  were  with 
her  were  hurried,  harassed  and  tired  people — people  who 
gave  themselves  heart  and  soul  to  the  superhuman  task 
of  trying  to  better  conditions  for  the  treadmill  hordes, 
and  who  were  swayed  and  crowded  and  deafened  by  a 
class  bewildered  and  incoherent,  suspicious  and  ready 
always  for  panic-flight 

Thanklessness  and  worse  they  met  with,  the  little  band 
who  strove  to  protect  and  lead.  Their  teachings  were 
misquoted  and  their  acts  criticised  and  their  motives 
sneered  at.  Treachery  gnawed  at  their  enthusiasm  and 
malice  sickened  their  zeal.  The  failures  loomed  large 
and  shouted  from  the  housetops,  while  the  successes 
were  nebulously  indistinct  and  were  unheard  in  the 
clamour.  The  harvest  was  huge  and  the  workers  few 
and  lonely. 

For  the  children  she  laboured  most,  and  they  hurt  her 
least.  The  parents,  lethargic  where  not  possessed  of 
greed,  blocked  her  and  resented  what  she  did.  But  this 
she  ignored,  and  she  worked  through  a  dozen  channels 
to  reach  the  legislative  machinery  and  to  clog  its  work 
of  evil. 

Out  of  this  came  sinister  warning  and  open  threat. 
Peter  Pan  was  seized  upon  as  a  weapon  and  the  story 
of  his  birth  distorted  into  a  dozen  ugly  forms. 

Among  the  lower  orders  the  avid  taste  for  the  mys- 


404  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

terious  and  scandalous  revelled  in  whispered  gossip  and 
sidelong  look  at  the  sturdy  boy  who  visited  them,  and 
at  the  palely  quiet  woman  whose  tired  gaze  rested  on 
them  so  oddly  at  times. 

Among  the  higher,  the  method  was  more  refined,  but 
the  evil  interpretation  only  the  more  cruel.  All  this  she 
accepted  without  protest.  It  disturbed  her  as  little  as 
the  wreckage  that  thrashes  viciously  against  the  sea- 
gazing  cliff.  Her  vision  reached  beyond,  to  the  vast 
perspectives  into  which  dead  generations  had  withdrawn, 
out  of  which  myriads  of  children  were  trooping.  They 
were  as  innumerable  as  the  stars,  these  child-women  and 
child-men,  whirling  like  star-grain  down  into  the  great 
mill  whose  iron  jaws  gaped  for  their  baby  strength  and 
baby  limbs. 

And  out  of  their  bartered  childhood  the  ranks  of  the 
"Submerged"  were  recruited — the  blinded,  suspicious  and 
distorted  souls  whom  the  mother  of  her  yearned  over, 
even  while  they  turned  upon  her  the  barbed  arrows  of 
benefits  forgot. 

She  had  given  of  herself  and  she  was  very  tired.  She 
had  not  known  for  long  years  what  it  was  to  be  rested. 
Dr.  Carl  and  Kate  had  given  her  up  in  despair,  and  in 
her  mirror  she  saw  a  face  filled  with  weary  shadows. 
Had  she  not  done  her  share,  after  all?  Why  not  now 
quietly  step  back  and  down  from  it  all,  take  her  boy 
among  his  own  class,  and  give  over  her  storm-driven 
bark  to  arms  strong  and  eager  to  shield? 

To-morrow  the  heat  and  dust  and  strife — the  heart- 
breaking effort,  the  inevitable  failures,  the  uncertain 
fruitage!  And  she  was  so  tired — heart  and  soul  and 
body. 

"To  go  back — that  would  mean  to  the  big  waters " 

She  was  murmuring  in  a  monotonous  little  sing-song, 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  405 

her  eyes  closed,  her  head  settling  back  against  the  quietly 
powerful  arm  that  braced  it.  "It  would  mean  the  deli- 
cate things — soft  lights  and  exquisite  music;  flowers, 
narcissus  and  mignonette  and  valley  lilies;  and  cultured 
voices  and  pleasantness,  shelter  and  idleness  and — 
peace " 

He  looked  down  at  the  slenderly  inert  figure,  its  white 
draperies  touched  with  misty  moonlight — at  the  satin- 
smooth  coils  of  dark  hair  against  his  sleeve,  at  the 
whimsical  little  smile  that  wavered  over  the  tired  droop 
of  the  mouth.  He  had  been  patient,  and  he  was  not  a 
patient  man.  But  she  was  tiring,  as  was  inevitable,  and 
the  battle  was  to  the  strong. 

He  stooped  over  her,  his  lips  on  her  throat. 

"It  would  mean,  and  will  mean  more,  when  I  take 
you  out  of  this  Gehenna  to  the  sea.  I  will  bring  you 
back  ready  to  be  one  of  the  Inner  Council — to  play  a 
game  worthy  your  intelligence,  Altesse." 

When  she  was  alone  she  moved  restlessly  about  the 
room,  then  went  back  to  the  couch  and  lay  there  very 
still,  looking  down  at  the  City  that  hummed  uneasily  all 
night  long.  Did  it  want  her  very  much,  after  all  ?  Did 
it  care  ?  The  tide  had  slowly  turned  in  favour  of  the  chil- 
dren— the  Public  had  been  reached  and  stirred  into  action 
at  last,  and  in  this  she  had  played  her  little  part.  So 
now  she  could  yield  to  the  exhaustion  that  tugged  at  her 
and  clamoured  for  rest. 

Two  years  since  Henry  Calhoun  had  first  bent  over 
her  hand  in  his  easy,  masterful  way  and  had  drawn  it 
through  his  arm  to  lead  her  to  the  table  at  the  Keiths' 
dinner-dance.  In  his  arms  after,  with  the  sweet  old 
witchery  of  a  Strauss  waltz  quickening  the  pulse,  she  had 
acknowledged  the  charm  of  this  man  who  was  such  a 


406  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

distinct  and  finished  product  of  his  own  world  and  time. 

Coolly  cynical,  frankly  egotistic,  courteously  compel- 
ling, he  controlled  people  and  affairs  with  an  absence  of 
effort  almost  insolent  in  its  invariable  and  calm  success. 
And  the  maturity  of  her  womanhood  paid  its  homage  to 
a  masterful  mind  that  she  could  respect  if  not  always 
with  approbation. 

But  at  the  dinner-dance  the  waltz-strains  had  followed 
them  out  to  the  terrace  of  the  Keiths'  summer  home. 
And  while  she  had  listened  to  the  masterful  tones  of  the 
man  who  was  studying  her  with  his  cruelly  clever  eyes, 
the  little  weary  voice  that  seemed  to  beat  like  a  bird  with 
broken  wings  in  her  inner  consciousness  was  crying  for 
that  other,  the  man  of  brief  speech  and  long,  long 
thought ! 

And  so,  as  the  months  crept  by,  the  little  voice  fol- 
lowed her  to  stifling  tenement,  to  sordidly  repulsive 
sweatshop,  as  it  followed  her  to  the  gracious  homes  of 
her  own  kind.  He  had  come  back  from  his  world- 
encircling  mission  and  due  honours  had  been  paid  him. 
And  his  hospital  work  had  again  claimed  him,  its  chief, 
now  renewed  in  strength  and  playing  his  game  of  life 
and  death  with  even  finer  skill. 

But  a  few  miles  apart,  their  paths  had  not  again 
crossed,  though  the  others  of  their  circles  had  seen  him 
at  intervals. 

And  so — was  that  the  end  ?  With  her  arms  stretched 
out  across  the  cushions,  her  hands  clasped  tightly,  she 
looked  down  at  the  unsleeping  City,  with  its  myriad  souls 
and  myriad  sorrows.  The  pain  of  her  own  heart  was, 
after  all,  the  pain  of  all  that  suffered  there  under  that 
sea  of  dark  roofs.  They  were  groping,  seeking,  crying 
for  companionship,  huddling  close  for  comfort,  from  the 
rat-faced  Yeggman  with  his  crime-wise  girl-mistress, 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  407 

to  the  man  whose  gold  swayed  kingdoms  across  the  sea 
and  the  weary-eyed  patrician  wife  his  gold  had  bought. 
They  were  lonely!  With  sardonic  humour  Destiny 
herded  them  together  in  one  million,  two,  three — swarm- 
ing in  soul-stifling  confusion.  And  out  of  that  fearful, 
struggling  mass  there  steadily  boiled  the  green  froth  of 
crime  bred  of  loneliness! 

" — Out  of  senseless  Nothing  to  provoke 
A  conscious  Something  to  resent  the  yoke 

Of  unpermitted  Pleasure,  under  pain 
Of  Everlasting  Penalties,   if  broke!" 

And  how  few,  how  pitifully  few,  came  into  their  own! 
"How  lonely  is  every  one,"  cried  Carlyle.  "In  this  great 
charnel  of  the  universe!" 

Calhoun  would  give  her  the  companionship  of  an  ex- 
ceptional mind,  interests  that  would  be  weighty  and  ab- 
sorbing, her  part  to  play  in  the  great  game  of  statecraft 
and  the  influence  of  his  dominating  personality  to  keep 
from  her  all  that  could  injure  or  offend.  He  was  the 
valued  friend  of  her  people  and  her  friends,  and  they 
were  waiting  with  eager  confidence  for  an  outcome  of 
the  two-year  camaraderie  that  they  considered  inevitable. 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  felt  the  warmth  of  his  lips 
on  her  throat,  the  vibration  of  power  that  reached  to  her 
from  the  muscular  arm  where  her  head  rested.  They 
had  been  splendid,  satisfying  friends,  jeering  with  com- 
fortable impertinence  at  each  other's  hobbies  and  the- 
ories, appealing  to  each  other's  quick  understanding  for 
the  double  enjoyment  of  a  clever  phrase,  a  bar  of  music, 
a  sunset  across  mysterious,  waters. 

All  this  had  meant  much  and  had  helped  her,  as  a 
counter  influence,  through  the  labours  and  wearing  anxie- 


408  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

ties  that  tried  her  often  to  the  breaking  point.  But  with 
this  he  was  no  longer  content. 

Opening  her  eyes,  she  looked  up,  beyond  the  electric- 
sharp  glare  of  the  city  lights,  to  the  remote,  ages-old 
stars,  dim  and  austerely  indifferent.  Their  serenity 
looked  down  in  still  rebuke  at  the  "fitful  fever"  of  life's 
little  day.  Behind  them  slept  the  great  Question.  Their 
antiquity  dwarfed  either  pain  or  prize  that  Life  might 
give.  Their  beacon-light,  burning  across  the  graveyard 
of  centuries,  was  an  earnest  of  things  so  vast  that  imagi- 
nation faltered  and  failed  before  them. 

Looking  down  upon  the  City,  the  wearied  human  cried 
for  the  flesh-pots,  for  the  easy  content  of  Lesser  Things. 

But  always  the  dumb  oratory  of  the  signs  that  illu- 
mined the  Heavens  drew  the  spirit  back  to  its  questing 
of  the  Supreme.  To  the  untranslatable  rhythm  the  soul 
responded,  as  to  the  sonorous,  irregular  majesty  of  a 
Gregorian  chant. 

And  June  Ferriss,  lifting  the  clasped  hands,  held  the 
little  thread  of  gold  against  her  lips.  It  was  the  tangible 
thing  that  held  her  when  the  flesh  was  weak.  She  had 
sought  the  lode-star,  stumbling  through  the  swamp-fires 
that  bewildered,  following  the  ignis  fatuus  that  flared 
and  then  flickered  out.  And  after  many  days  she  had 
been  given  her  desire. 

The  two  years  lifted  as  a  curtain,  and  with  sudden, 
poignant  reality  she  was  back  in  the  little  cabin  among 
the  hills.  The  coldly  pitiless  voice  laid  upon  her  its 
seven-thonged  whip,  but  under  its  burning  lash  her 
spirit  had  crept  on  its  knees,  inch  by  inch,  toward  its 
temple.  It  was  the  final,  crucial  passage  of  her  long 
Way  of  Pain — the  Sancta  Scala  up  which  she  must  climb, 
kneeling,  to  the  curtained  Host 

And  it  had  not  been  in  vain. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  409 

With  arm's  out-flung  to  the  night,  she  cried  out  to  him : 
"John  Orth!  John  Orth!" 

The  City  faded  like  a  mirage — the  myriad-pointed 
firmament  wheeled  close,  and  there  was  the  rushing  of  a 
winged  host — of  those  who  had  loved  and  had  plucked 
a  rose  out  of  the  pit  of  Hell. 

Out  of  the  white  fire  of  suffering  her  eyes  had 
reached  to  him,  and  he  had  answered  them.  Heaven 
and  Earth  had  rolled  away  like  a  scroll,  and  they  stood 
alone,  man  and  woman,  between  the  two  eternities.  With 
his  lips  on  hers,  Life  had  written  its  ultimate  "Ave  et 
vale!"  The  bitterness  of  years  fell  from  them,  the 
sweetness  reached  only  by  those  who  have  known  the 
crucible,  distilled  its  keen  wine  through  chilled  soul  and 
body;  their  senses  swung  dizzily  to  the  crashing  music 
of  the  spheres. 

The  rose  of  a  moment  plucked  from  Life's  Hell! 

"But  memory  gives  it  back  to  me — the  imperishable 
rose — beloved! — my  beloved,  my  beloved! " 

Shaken  by  the  remembered  sweetness  of  it,  she 
crouched  on  the  cushions,  watching  for  the  miracle  paint- 
ing— the  coming  of  the  dawn.  Close  to  the  edge  of  the 
world  a  great  star  burned  steadily. 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-SEVEN 

THROUGH  the  furnace  heat  of  August  Mrs.  James 
Ferriss  descended  upon  the  City,  upon  her  comely 
countenance  wrath  and  determination  writ  large. 

"Not  that  Jimmy  Ferriss  or  I  care  a  whoop  if  you  are 
picked  up  unconscious  in  some  tenement  that  smells  to 
Heaven  and  are  stuffed  in  some  frowsy  police  ambulance 
for  the  City  Hospital,"  she  explained  grimly  to  her  step- 
daughter as  the  latter  hugged  her  ecstatically.  "But 
Peter  Pan  fusses  for  his  mother  and  refuses  to  be  com- 
forted, though  I  tell  him  daily  that  I  am  very  much 
nicer  and  do  not  consider  it  my  Christian  mission  in  life 
to  keep  my  friends  miserable.  Jimmy  Ferriss  says  if  I 
come  back  without  you  he  will  get  three  divorces.  You 
are  the  usual  thankless  type  of  step-daughter,  and  I  don't 
see  where  I  have  any  call  to  care  anything  about  you. 
But  I  am  still  soft  on  Jimmy.  Therefore,  you  go  back 
with  me  to  the  Island  dead  or  alive." 

The  indefatigable  physician,  browned  healthily  by  the 
Island's  outdoor  life  and  breezes,  rattled  on  about  the 
Island  events,  the  prize-winners  in  the  aquatic  sports,  the 
new  bungalows  and  the  addition  to  the  club-house. 

But  her  shrewd  gaze  was  scanning  the  white  face, 
grown  perceptibly  thinner,  and  the  still  radiance  of  the 
heavily  shadowed  eyes,  that  smiled  affectionately  and 
gladly  back  at  her  over  the  little  brass  tea-kettle.  What 
her  professional  training  read  there  made  her  distinctly 
snappish  and  she  proceeded  to  carry  things  with  a  high 
hand. 

410 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  411 

The  result  was  that  June  found  herself  put  to  bed  by 
her  step-mother  and  the  volubly  thankful  Nora. 

"Sure  an'  it's  the  God's  blessin'  that  you  came,  Mrs. 
Jim,  darlint!"  the  latter  reiterated  tearfully.  "She  would 
shtay  here  in  this  bilin'  hole  an'  it  wuz  killin'  her  fast. 
But  I  could  do  nawthin'  with  her,  she's  that  set!" 

"Well,  I  am  going  to  do  something  with  her,"  replied 
Mrs.  Jim  with  ominous  calmness.  "And  by  that  same 
token  you  may  ring  for  the  janitor,  Nora,  and  we  will 
pack.  Get  her  trunks  and  yours." 

And  so  it  was  that  June  Ferriss  found  herself  back 
again  on  the  Island  that  had  known  her  girl  joys  and 
life  of  Arcadian  dolce  far  niente.  It  was  a  woman 
that  came  back — worn,  tried,  wiser  and  very  patient. 
And  the  woman  found  that  Time  had  not  stood  still, 
even  where  the  quiet  round  of  the  seasons  seemed  the 
only  thing  that  could  vary  or  disturb  the  Island's  change- 
fully  changeless  calm. 

The  homes  and  the  tents  and  the  lagoons  were  much 
the  same,  but  death  and  marriage  and  the  kaleidoscopic 
shifting  of  circumstance  and  condition  had  altered  the 
personnel  of  the  Island  colony.  But  a  few,  a  very  few, 
of  the  old  friends  were  there  to  greet  her.  And  the 
stern,  inexorable  law  of  change  had  worked  its  will 
among  the  happy  little  coterie  who  had  been  her  fa- 
miliars, leavmg  her  almost  alone,  almost  an  alien,  in 
what  had  once  been  home. 

Her  father  and  Kate,  happy  with  each  other,  were 
content  with  the  newer  arrivals  and  promptly  affiliated 
themselves  with  the  existing  order.  June,  yielding  to 
their  persuasions,  joined  in  the  old  round  of  Island  occu- 
pations. But  the  verve  had  gone  out  of  her — the  old, 


412  /          The  Towers  of  Ilium 

easy  charm  of  light  labours  and  lazy  amusements  had 
vanished. 

In  their  place  was  a  thankfulness  for  the  peace  and 
loveliness  of  wide  skies  and  far-reaching  waters,  for 
the  luminous  dawns  and  splendid  sunsets,  for  the  pleas- 
ant courtesies  of  cultured  people  and  the  absence  of 
discomfort  and  harshness.  But  she  found  herself  slip- 
ping away  from  the  people  to  the  quiet  of  a  book  in  a 
sheltered  corner  of  the  breakwater — a  book,  and  her 
dreams. 

The  boat-landing  was  always  a  place  of  interest  to 
the  Islanders.  The  big,  turtle-shaped  side-wheelers  would 
paddle  in  with  much  churning  of  waters  and  sounding 
of  hidden  bells,  and  the  City  crowds  would  press  to  the 
railings  to  look  down  at  the  fleet  of  canoes  that  floated 
like  lazy  butterflies  on  the  little  waves  glittering  in  the 
sunlight. 

June  Ferriss,  keeping  her  light  craft  steady  with  an 
occasional  dip  of  the  paddle,  would  drift  close  to  the 
landing  in  obedience  to  significant  signals  from  other 
Islanders.  Then  they  would  all  turn  to  gaze  in  pained 
surprise  at  a  disturbance  in  one  of  the  canoes,  where 
two  or  three  of  the  boys,  clad  airily  in  racing  togs,  were 
plunged  in  a  heated  argument  that  promised  battle,  mur- 
der and  sudden  death. 

Just  as  the  long-suffering  crew  of  the  turtle-ferry  was 
marshalling  its  crowd  into  order  for  the  gang-plank,  the 
dispute  would  reach  its  climax,  there  would  be  a  terrible 
lunge,  a  wild  flopping  of  the  frail  bark,  a  shriek  of 
horror  from  the  ferry  crowd  and  a  groan  as  the  little 
craft  turned  over  and  the  angry  occupants  disappeared 
beneath  the  waters. 

The  exasperated  ferry-hands  would  shake  their  fists 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  413 

at  the  wet  heads  that  bobbed  serenely  to  the  surface, 
while  muscular  arms  flashed  through  the  water  in  long, 
scientific  strokes,  deftly  righted  the  canoe  and  then  towed 
it  ashore.  Then  the  boys  would  smile  like  cherubs  up  at 
the  profane  members  of  the  crew  and  murmur  reproach- 
fully—"Naughty  !  naughty !" 

After  one  of  these  tragic  accidents,  June,  smiling 
amusedly  at  the  nonsense,  was  turning  away,  when  a 
Mrs.  Trevor  thrust  out  her  own  paddle  and  checked  her. 

"Wait,  June  Ferriss!  Who  is  that  splendid-looking 
man  on  the  upper  deck  ?  He  knows  you,  because  he  has 
been  looking  at  you  and  smiling,  while  those  pests  of 
boys  were  making  those  shrieking  women  faint.  Prom- 
ise that  you'll  bring  him  over  to  the  Lodge  to-night,  or 
I'll  duck  you!"  She  added  viciously,  "Promise,  you 
cat!" 

June  laughed  as  she  swept  her  canoe  to  safety  with  a 
deep  stroke  of  the  paddle. 

"I'll  pray  over  it!"  she  called  back  gaily  to  the  pretty 
matron  who  threatened  her.  "But  I  don't  think  I'll  let 
you  have  him,  Kitty  Trevor.  I  want  him  myself." 

Five  minutes  later  Mrs.  Trevor  managed  to  flash  at 
her  laughing  friend  a  pair  of  indignant  blue  eyes  which 
she  skilfully  changed  to  a  gaze  of  demure  approval  at  her 
friend's  passenger,  sitting  very  much  at  his  ease  in  the 
bow  of  June's  canoe. 

"That  is  Mrs.  Frank  Trevor,"  June  explained,  as  she 
paddled  easily  toward  the  lagoon  that  led  home.  "She 
ticketed  you  as  worth  knowing  and  promised  dire  things 
if  I  did  not  take  you  over  to  Trevor  Lodge  to-night." 

"Spare  her  her  illusions  a  little  longer,"  begged  Henry 
Calhoun  charitably.  "Life  has  so  few.  Also,  I  came 
here — uninvited — to  tell  you  a  few  things  and  a  City 


414  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

yearns  for  my  return.  Like  Antony,  I  saw  you  disap- 
pear and  I  turned  my  ships." 

June  shook  her  head  regretfully.  "It  sounds  well, 
dear  Antony.  But  your  secretary  phoned  for  a  reser- 
vation on  the  Bankers'  Train  and  you  lunched  in  the 
diner  de  luxe  and  the  leather  case  over  your  heart  is 
filled  with  Bock  Panetelas.  And  the  City  will  pant 
patiently  in  the  heat  till  you  return  to  tell  the  Lord 
Mayor  and  his  Cabinet  when  to  turn  thumbs  up  or 
thumbs  down." 

"Same  thing,"  replied  Mr.  Calhoun  calmly.  "Mark 
left  the  seat  of  war  to  convey  certain  information  to  the 
lady  of  the  Nile  and  so  did  I.  This  happens  to  be  a 
lagoon  instead,  but  it's  just  as  wet  and  there  will  be  the 
same  moon  over  it  to-night  when  I  tell  you  things.  We 
wear  bifurcated  garments  instead  of  a  toga,  but  we  wear 
our  hearts  in  the  same  place  and  we  love  just  as  hard." 

He  selected  a  cigar  with  care  from  the  leather  case 
she  had  mentioned,  held  his  straw  hat  for  a  shield  when 
he  lighted  it,  studied  it  till  he  saw  that  it  drew  evenly, 
then  returned  his  keen,  rather  cruel  regard  to  the  woman 
kneeling  in  the  stern. 

"You  sneaked  away,  you  know,"  he  remarked  calmly. 

June  drew  her  paddle  carefuly  out  of  some  entangling 
lily-pads  and  laughed  down  at  him. 

"Kidnapped,"  she  corrected  gaily.  "Kate  did  it,  and 
what  can  one  do  when  a  relentless  step-mother  takes  the 
law  into  her  own  hands  and  makes  a  fuss  about  things? 
The  call  of  duty  simply  went  a'glimmering,  and  behold 
me  a  lotus-eater." 

"And  not  before  it  was  needed,"  he  added  with  a  note 
of  grimness.  "You  are  very  stubborn,  you  know,  and 
this  idea  of  yours  that  you  must  seek  other  spheres  than 
your  own  to  be  of  use,  is  all  wrong,  if  you  could  only 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  415 

readjust  your  mental  attitude  and  see  that  it  is.  Your 
influence  is  just  as  valuable  among  your  own  kind,  and 
infinitely  more  worth  while.  We  do  not  keep  our  great 
financier  counting  pennies  into  little  bags  and  adding 
rows  of  figures  in  a  ledger.  We  give  him  lesser  minds 
who  are  able  to  do  the  drudgery  for  him.  You  have  no 
business  among  the  treadmill  throng — they  crush  you 
among  them.  Your  place  is  with  me,  where  you  can 
plan,  direct,  control." 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  distant  city  line  across 
the  bay  and  the  after-light  made  a  nimbus  around  her 
head.  Her  paddle  rested  idly  across  the  canoe  in  front 
of  her  and  the  little  craft  drifted  slowly  with  the  slow 
current  of  the  lagoon. 

Calhoun  dropped  his  cigar  into  the  water  and  leaned 
forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  well-shaped, 
powerful  hands  clasped.  His  gaze,  insistent,  compelling, 
held  hers  that  smiled  protestingly  back  at  him. 

"You  are  counting  pennies  into  little  bags,  you  know. 
You  accomplish  a  little,  but  how  much?  How  far  does 
your  influence  reach?  How  many  do  you  affect?  For 
the  vitality  you  give  out,  what  do  you  reap  in  results? 
Do  they  need  you,  after  all,  as  much  as  you  think  they 
do,  these  of  the  struggling  hordes  with  whom  you  seek 
to  cope?  If  they  are  worth  anything,  will  they  not  work 
out  their  own  salvation?  And  if  they  are  not  worth 
anything,  can  you  do  anything  for  them?" 

The  fascination  of  indomitable  will,  of  implacable 
power,  reached — held  her.  Calm,  resistless  resolve 
wrapped  him  as  in  a  coat  of  steel  mail.  In  Calhoun  she 
saw  the  qualities  that  her  mind  craved,  that  her  soul  paid 
full  and  eager  deference  to.  While  her  intelligence  re- 
sponded to  the  splendid  intelligence  of  this  man  whose 
name  stood  so  high  in  Statecraft  that  he  could  afford  to 


416  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

brush  lightly  aside  as  immaterial  the  proffered  honours 
of  office,  so,  too,  the  languor  of  body  that  tense  years 
had  laid  upon  her,  lured  her  now  to  the  abounding 
strength  and  masculinity  that  offered  its  arms  to  her. 

"I  have  succeeded,"  he  was  saying  to  her,  with  the 
quiet  recognition  of  his  own  ability  that  rose  above  the 
pretence  of  any  question  as  to  its  achievements.  "And 
beyond  that  succeeding  there  is  still  success.  I  am  going 
on.  What  of  you?  When  you  crumple  up  and  the 
brutalities  close  over  you  in  waves  that  stifle  and  ob- 
literate, what  then?  With  the  same  flag  floating  above 
us,  is  it  to  be  the  stars  for  me,  the  stripes  for  you?" 

The  after-glow  of  day  was  retreating  before  the 
phantom-dusk  that  trailed  grey  garments  in  from  the 
swift-darkening  waters  of  the  lake.  The  lagoons  were 
turning  from  bronze  to  ebony,  and  the  rushes  and  reeds 
leaned  their  dark  sword-like  blades  together  in  sibilant 
rustling,  as  the  chill  of  coming  night  swept  in  fitful 
breaths  across  the  Island. 

June  Ferriss  felt  the  vague  coldness  of  that  coming 
night  gather  around  her  heart,  as  she  felt  the  undeniable 
verity  of  the  calmly  dispassionate  words  that  painted  in 
pitiless  black  and  white  what  life  now  held  for  her  and 
its  promise  of  what  was  to  come. 

Silently  they  drifted  to  the  little  boat-landing,  from 
where  gaily  welcoming  voices  hailed  them. 

"Kitty  Trevor  phoned  a  detailed  and  vivid  description 
from  the  Lodge,"  Mrs.  Ferriss  called  to  them.  "So  we 
knew  it  was  you,  Henry  G.  They  want  us  over  there 
to-night,  but  I  told  them  you  belonged  to  the  family, 
and  besides,  you  didn't  come  to  the  Island  to  play  bridge 
and  pool." 

"She  is  going  to  look  after  your  morals  and  your 
pocket-book,  Calhoun!"  Mr.  Ferriss  assured  him  as  he 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  417 

steadied  the  canoe  while  they  stepped  out  on  the  land- 
ing. "But  never  mind — we  have  a  little  wagon-buffet 
on  the  porch  stocked  with  ice  and  things,  and  you  and 
June  can  spoon  in  the  moonlight,  and  Luna  promises  to 
outdo  herself  to-night." 

True  to  their  word,  Ferriss  pere  and  his  good  wife 
carried  themselves  away  to  their  own  apartments  at  an 
early  hour,  while  Calhoun  scorned  the  big,  comfortable 
porch,  after  all,  and  took  June  down  to  the  sands.  There 
a  piece  of  wreckage  made  a  comfortable  seat. 

"You  may  as  well  be  comfortable,  because  I  came  here 
to  give  you  a  talking  to,"  Calhoun  explained. 

June  pulled  her  soft  white  shawl  close  under  her  chin 
and  leaned  back  lazily. 

"Talking  to's  sound  too  serious  for  such  a  wonderful 
night,"  she  protested.  "Tell  me  some  pleasant  things. 
Look  at  that  wonderful  moon  and  that  shining  path- 
way it  sends  across  the  water  to  us.  How  often  do  we 
look  at  it  and  know  that  it  is  wonderful?  What  does 
that  Titanic  massing  of  molten  colours  in  the  West  at 
the  day's  end  say  to  us  generally?  Is  it  a  miracle  that 
we  look  at  with  awe,  silent  before  its  stupendous 
beauty?  Or  does  it  just  suggest  the  end  of  a  work-day 
and  the  odour  of  dinner !  What  barbarians  we  are,  after 
all — dress,  tasks,  habits.  Look  at  us  and  our  fashion 
grotesqueness — our  mincing,  mannequin  freakiness  that 
we  stupidly  give  ourselves  to,  with  all  the  grace  and  love- 
liness of  Greek  tradition  pleading  with  us  for  the  lost 
loveliness  of  simple  things,  of  long,  gracious  folds,  of 
dignity  in  colour  and  adornment,  of  quietness,  of  re- 
straint !" 

"It  is  the  age  of  the  shriek  and  the  siren-whistle,  my 
dear,"  replied  Calhoun.  "Women  do  not  dress  for  the 
loveliness  of  simply  lovely  raiment,  God  bless  us,  no! 


418  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

They  dress  to  be  stared  at.  And  each  has  sought  to 
out-Herod  Herod  till  she  has  attained  her  own  individual 
shout.  And  the  result  of  the  aggregate  bears  the  same 
relation  to  beauty  as  the  circus  calliope  of  sacred  child- 
hood memory  does  to  music.  But  I  did  not  come  here 
to  talk  about  modern  women.  There  are  some  irate  per- 
sons in  the  City  who  are  stirring  things  in  the  political 
Endor-pot,  who  do  not  think  I  should  be  here  at  all, 
and  they  are  quite  right.  I  have  to  go  back  to-morrow 
on  the  Bankers'  Special  and  the  de  luxe  diner  that  you 
were  unkind  enough  to  jeer  about,  when  I  tried  to  make 
you  understand  that  I  was  ready  to  swim  any  modern 
Hellespont  that  might  present  itself.  You  are  worth 
some  extra  exertion,  you  know.  That's  why  I  am  not 
in  the  City  with  my  good  friends  who  are  now  making 
unparliamentary  remarks  about  me.  And — I  want  to 
talk  about  you." 

He  smoked  in  silence  for  a  little,  then  tossed  the  cigar 
into  the  surf  that  foamed  silkily  up  to  the  edge  of  the 
half-buried  wreck,  and,  lifting  one  foot  to  the  rotting 
wood,  he  leaned  forward  with  his  elbow  on  his  knee. 

The  posture  was  a  familiar  one  of  Orth's,  and  June 
closed  her  eyes  for  a  sick  moment.  Ah,  the  pictures  of 
him  that  her  heart  hoarded — counted  over  in  her  life's 
silence  as  the  devotee  kneeling  in  the  church  darkness 
tells  her  beads! 

She  put  the  thought  of  him  from  her  with  an  effort 
that  seemed  almost  physical.  Calhoun's  keen,  resolute 
eyes  were  on  her  face,  cameo-clear  in  the  moonlight,  and 
a  little  desperately  she  turned  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"Yes ! — well,  go  on ! "  There  was  a  tremor  in  her 

voice,  something  of  wildness  in  the  gaze  that  lifted 
swiftly,  and  then  steadied,  in  the  masterful  steadiness 
of  his.  The  mournful,  irregular  tolling  of  the  buoy- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  419 

bell  out  near  the  reefs  came  fitfully  over  the  waters.  It 
seemed  to  her  tired  of  pain,  of  the  sorrow  of  its  dirge 
of  drowned  things.  And  so  she  to-night  shrank  in  sick 
cowardice  from  the  long  pain  of  loving. 

Why  not  let  go,  put  from  her  this  misery  of  longing 
that  throbbed  like  a  twisted  nerve  through  the  warp  and 
woof  of  life?  To  let  go,  and  be  loved  as  this  man 
beside  her — cool,  cynical,  dominating — could  love !  Why 
not? 

"Have  these  clean,  sane  breezes  taught  you  things?" 
His  voice  was  quietly  matter-of-fact,  and  the  nerves  that 
quivered  and  tugged  madly  at  the  enforced  calm  of  her 
bearing,  responded  gratefully  to  the  cool,  powerful  touch 
that  had  the  healing  gentleness  that  only  power  can  have. 
Her  breast  stirred  with  the  soft,  broken  sigh  of  a  child 
that  has  cried  itself  to  sleep ;  her  body  relaxed  down  all 
its  languid  length.  His  gaze  held  hers,  and  the  superb 
confidence  of  the  man,  that  curbed  his  own  passion  with 
as  iron  a  will  as  it  controlled  the  passions  of  his  fol- 
lowers, comforted  her  with  its  sense  of  absolute  safety. 

"With  all  your  cleverness,  you  are  obsessed.  A  little 
devil  of  perversity  is  playing  havoc  with  your  good 
sense.  You  insist  upon  the  martyr-role,  in  a  day  when 
martyrdom  is  no  longer  necessary,  nor  even  recognised 
when  it  is  seen.  Our  taxes  pay  for  our  organisations, 
which  take  care  of  the  problems  you  fret  about  much 
better  than  you  can.  Your  giving  your  body  to  the  lions 
isn't  going  to  do  any  material  good.  Evolution  takes 
time.  These  people  you  travail  over  must  grow.  You 
can't  pull  them  up.  And  they  don't  suffer  half  as  much 
as  you  think  they  do.  In  fact,  they  are  in  many  respects 
much  happier  than  we  are.  Their  joys  are  far  more 
plentiful  and  much  cheaper.  You  are  tuned  like  a  Stradi- 
varius.  But  the  violin  strings  whose  ecstasy  and  pain 


420  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

vibrate  to  every  softest  breath  of  the  Master,  would  snap 
under  the  rough  grasp  of  those  you  think  need  pity. 

"There  is  an  inexorable  law  of  Breed.  The  stratum 
you  labour  over  has  its  good  strain,  of  course — its  rough 
honesty  and  patience  and  dogged  perseverance. 

"But  with  these,  who  do  not  need  you  because  they 
are  strong  and  decent,  are  others  who  use  you  till  your 
interests  clash  with  theirs  and  who  will  then  promptly 
turn  and  rend  you.  That  is  the  mongrel  breed,  my  stub- 
born friend.  It  has  the  common  wolf -cowardice  that 
hunts  in  packs.  It  knows  as  much  of  honour  as  it  does 
of  Sanscrit,  as  much  of  gratitude  as  it  does  of  Homer. 
It  fawns  over  your  outstretched  hand  while  the  poison 
of  envy  and  malice  is  hot  in  its  vitals,  and  when  it  thinks 
it  is  safe,  it  sinks  its  teeth  in  your  heel." 

"Don't !" 

He  smiled  at  the  sharp  cry. 

"I  am  not  telling  you  anything  new,"  he  reminded 
her  calmly.  "All  that  isn't  my  discovery.  The  law  of 
Breeding  is  as  old  as  the  world.  You  can't  change  it 
with  sentiment.  Your  strong  and  decent  stock  is  hon- 
est— what  you  do  for  them  they  pay  back  again  with 
their  genuine  gratitude  and  genuine  affection.  Your 
vulgarian  hates  you  for  the  very  use  it  makes  of  you, 
because  it  hates  anything  that  has  and  is  what  it  can 
never  have  nor  be.  It  hates  you  because  of  what  you 
represent.  And  as  it  cannot  emulate,  it  attacks.  And 
all  this  that  I  am  telling  you  is  what  you  have  already 
found  out.  Be  honest — admit  it! " 

She  was  staring  out  over  the  glimmering,  splendid 
path  of  silver  that  stretched  across  the  restless  waters. 
That  was  what  he  stood  for — a  path  that  awaited  her 
of  beauty;  of  restless,  vital  power;  of  splendid  accom- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  421 

plishment.  While  back  there  in  the  City,  the  long  dusty 
road 

"In  the  City "  He  picked  up  her  thought  with  un- 
canny certainty.  "You  plunge  into  problems  that  call 
merely  for  dray-horse  strength.  Why  waste  the  delicate 
finesse  of  Cabinets  on  matters  that  belong  to  police 
matrons?  Why  give  over  your  personality  and  your 
sensibilities  to  the  mercy  of  those  beneath  you,  any  more 
than  you  would  give  your  Ibsen  and  your  Maeterlinck 
to  them  to  deface  and  destroy  in  malice  because  they  tell 
of  things  high  and  fine  and  inaccessible?  And  do  you 
know  why  you  have  done  these  things,  that  your  own 
reason  told  you  were  illogical?  It  was  because  you 
sought  Nepenthe — you  wanted  forgetfulness  of  self — 
you  gave  of  yourself  to  a  hungry  maw  that  a  generation 
of  your  kind  could  not  satisfy,  because,  in  the  final 
analysis,  you  wanted  to  shake  off  self,  get  rid  of  an  Old 
Man  of  the  Sea.  You  are  uneasy,  restless,  and  the  flesh- 
pots  of  Egypt  do  not  satisfy.  So  you  turn  from  Egypt 
to  the  treadmill  throng  and  try  to  lose  yourself  among 
them.  But  you  can't,  you  know." 

The  level,  dispassionate  tones  as  they  picked  up  and 
considered  her  work  with  unhurried  deliberation,  probed 
home  into  her  consciousness  with  the  sureness  of  an  anti- 
toxic corrective.  She  felt  helpless,  futile.  The  thought 
of  pleasanter  paths,  of  the  gracious  things  that  would, 
if  she  permitted,  shield  her  from  so  much  that  now 
chafed  and  injured  her,  had  seemed  a  temptation  that 
she  put  from  her  with  a  sense  of  shame.  But  Henry 
Calhoun  always  thrust  her  into  a  shaft  of  light  that 
appeared  to  be  cold  reason  and  in  which  she  was  but  a 
visionary,  a  sentimentalist. 

She  began  to  feel  bewildered,  unsure  of  herself,  and 


422  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

she  flung  out  her  hands  with  a  touch  of  baffled  despair 
and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"What  is  truth!"  she  cried  to  him — the  cry  of  Pilate 
that  life  never  answers.  "Am  I  trying  to  do  the  right 
thing? — or  building  with  sand!  Are  you  honest,  I 
wonder? — or  the  clever  diplomat  bending  me  to  your 
will?  What  are  you?" 

They  faced  each  other  in  the  white  radiance  of  the 
"summer  night's  high  noon"  with  the  surf  curling  in 
a  soft  monotone  of  dreams  at  their  feet. 

The  man  stood  erect  before  her,  polished,  successful, 
masterful  product  of  his  time  and  of  his  world.  The 
eyes  with  their  cruel,  derisive  regard  of  his  generation 
in  mass,  now  met  the  desperate,  searching  eyes  of  the 
woman  with  a  sudden  hardening  of  purpose,  through 
which  reached  the  swift  flame  of  hidden  fires. 

Bending  over  her,  he  drew  her  to  him,  thrusting  her 
head  back  and  down  against  the  hollow  of  his  arm.  His 
lips  scorched  on  her  eyes  and  then  he  laughed,  his  face 
close  to  hers,  while  mounting  passion  long  held  in  leash 
sent  a  hot  wave  of  crimson  over  the  impassive  face  she 
had  known. 

"Truth? — good  God!  Is  it  truth,  that  I  want  to  lift 
you  from  this  blind  immolation  of  all  that  I  worship  in 
you,  on  the  altar  of  the  herd?  I  would  treasure  you,  you 
thing  of  white  fire  and  mate  for  a  strong  man! 

"You  would  be  the  high-priestess  of  my  councils,  the 
brain  of  the  woman-sovereign  to  bend  its  fine  intuition 
on  matters  that  count.  What  are  you  doing  now  ?  Try- 
ing to  make  Damascene  blades  out  of  broadswords  of 
pewter!  Am.  I  honest  in  wanting  to  lift  you  from  this, 
to  take  you  back  to  your  own  ?  What  am  I  ?  What  you 
see  and  what  my  record  shows,  and  they  both  lie  in  the 
hollow  of  your  hand.  I  am  neither  hero  nor  mission- 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  423 

ary — I  neither  teach  nor  preach.  I  take  man  and  ma- 
terial and  condition  as  the  world  gives  them  and  I  act. 
I  use  them,  mould  them,  and  I  climb — but  I  do  not  de- 
stroy— and  they,  too,  the  men  who  obey  me,  may  climb 
if  they  will.  And  I  want  you  with  me,  where  you  be- 
long. Do  you  hear?  I  want  you " 

Swift,  imperious,  the  will  of  the  man  swept  forward 
in  a  sudden  passion  of  amaze  that  it  should  be  thwarted 
now  and  for  the  first  time,  and  that  in  the  one  desire 
that  came  to  him  as  the  fitting  and  gracious  crown  of 
all  the  others. 

For  June,  lying  passive  in  the  arms  that  had  closed 
around  her  roughly,  was  looking  up  at  him  with  eyes 
that  were  remote,  brooding — the  look  that  he  could  not 
fathom. 

Turning  her  hands  so  the  palms  were  against  his 
breast,  she  pressed  him  back,  till  his  hands  closed  around 
her  two  elbows  and  he  held  her  there — a  Sphinx-ques- 
tion, still  and  white  in  the  moonlight. 

"Do  you  not  see?  We  may  be  both  partially  right 
and  partially  wrong.  That  is  where  it  is  difficult  to 
disentangle  these  troubled  questions  that  life  gives  us." 
She  smiled  up  at  him  wistfully.  "I  want  to  be  fair. 
You  mean  a  great  deal  to  me.  You  mean  almost  every- 
thing, perhaps,  but  just — the  one  thing.  Time  and  death 
take  from  us  our  old  friends  and  the  later  years  find 
us  with  the  very  few  that  we  care  for.  So  those  few 
become  dearer  and  closer  as  the  horizon  of  our  interest 

narrows.  You "  She  turned  and  looked  over  her 

shoulder  for  a  long  moment.  The  low  monotone  of  the 
unresting  waters,  threaded  with  the  haunting,  insistent 
note  of  the  bell,  filled  the  night  with  its  mystery. 

"It  is  not  easy  to  weigh  one's  own  motives,  is  it?  You 
represent  everything  that  could  tempt  me  to  turn  to  the 


424  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

things  that  are  big  and  brilliant  and  splendid.  Some- 
times I  want  to  turn  to  them — with  you — very  much.  I 
want  the  absorbing  interests  that  you  could  give  me,  the 
wider  horizon,  the  confreres  who  are  doing  things  that 
are  weighty  and  fine.  But  what  of  your  side  of  it?  If 
I  saw  my  way  clear  to  go  to  you,  because  my  life  would 
be  fuller  and  happier  than  it  is  now,  would  that  be 
good  sportsmanship?  I  care  for  you  very  much — but  I 
know  that  it  is  in  me  to  care  more " 

His  protests,  impatient,  resistless,  swept  through  her 
sleepless  brain  in  a  lava-tide  later,  and  she  carried  her 
wake  fulness  to  a  little  balcony  that  was  almost  hidden 
under  the  vine-hung  eaves  over  one  of  her  bedroom 
windows.  With  a  soft  cloak  twisted  around  her,  over 
her  nightgown,  she  crouched  on  the  cushions  of  the 
balcony  with  her  arms  on  the  railing.  The  booming 
monotone  of  the  waves  crowding  over  the  breakwater 
came  to  her  like  the  solemn  chanting  in  a  great  cathedral, 
and  she  lifted  her  face  to  the  cold  night  wind  grate- 
fully. 

The  City  and  its  warring  claims  had  followed  her  to 
the  Island.  Her  father  had  said,  long  before,  that  she 
could  not  escape  from  life  even  there.  So  now  she 
found  that  the  Island  was  the  same,  but  she  had  changed. 
The  girl  had  been  content  with  its  loveliness,  with  the 
charm  of  life  in  the  open,  with  the  elements  that  allured 
and  dreamed  to-day,  and  that  woke  to  majestic  rage  and 
mad  tempest  to-morrow.  But  the  woman  had  come 
back,  beaten  by  the  storms  of  life  and  aching  with  the 
hunger  of  life  at  its  supremest — not  to  dream  but  to 
know,  not  to  drift  but  to  soar,  straight  as  the  eagle  with 
eyes  and  breast  turned  full  to  the  sun,  to  the  full  splen- 
dour of  her  desire. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  425 

And  it  was  this  unsleeping  hunger  that  weakened  her 
will  so  that  the  human  woman  of  her  pleaded  for  com- 
promise, for  the  compensating  warmth  and  nourishment 
of  lesser  things  to  still  its  craving. 

At  such  moments  the  spirit  of  her — that  uncanny 
other  woman  who  was  so  austerely  silent  and  yet  so 
real — seemed  to  withdraw  into  her  own  region  where  she 
stood  alone,  on  guard  before  a  shrine. 

The  night  and  the  voices  of  the  sea  brought  the  spirit 
woman  closer.  The  shrine  was  real.  There,  like  Moses, 
it  had  been  given  her  to  see  her  God,  face  to  face.  The 
glory  of  answered  prayer  had  dazzled  her  eyes  for  a 
little  while  and  then  it  had  withdrawn  itself  into  the 
mysteries. 

And  now?  The  years,  long,  empty  and  echoing, 
stretched  out  before  her,  an  appalling  vista  of  memory's 
torment  and  Tantalus-crying  for  the  quiet  hands  that 
had  lifted  her  soul  to  its  golden  throne,  for  the  lips  that 
had  rested  on  hers  for  moments  that  held  the  Hymettus- 
sweetness  that  gods  distil  with  jealous  rarity.  To  re- 
member this  and  to  face  the  starved  bleakness  that  held 
only  its  memory! 

She  cowered  against  the  little  railing  with  a  broken 
moan,  her  dry  lips  hard  against  the  narrow  bit  of  metal 
on  her  clenched  hand.  Cold,  pure,  unyielding — such  was 
the  small  symbol  of  gold,  and  such  the  high  command  of 
the  love  it  represented. 

Out  of  the  warring  temptations  that  engulfed  her 
and  dragged  her  down,  she  thrust  her  arms  to  the  night 
and  its  hidden  God. 

"Ah,  you  who  gave  him  to  me,  and  who  understand ! — 
help  me  to  be  worthy,  to  be  strong!  Help  me!  God, 
God! — I  want  him  so! " 

On  her  knees  now,  pagan  unafraid! — she  turned  at 


426  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

last  to  the  God  who  had  been  "honest,"  who  had  given 
her  her  supreme  desire,  and  to  whom  she  must  now  pray 
for  strength  lest  she  prove  unfit. 

"The  moments  where  there  are  just  one's  self  and 
God" — of  this  he  had  spoken  there  among  the  hills,  the 
sunset  light  falling  across  the  wax-white  weariness  of 
his  face,  the  slow,  curbed  tenderness  of  fettered  years 
strangely  sweet  in  his  eyes. 

And  this  moment  had  come  to  her,  a  moment  in  the 
m'ght's  darkest  hour  when  the  soul  had  reached  its 
"dead,  low  tide."  Neither  creed  that  offered  nor  fear 
that  threatened  could  reach  her.  But  the  love  that  must 
now  be  guarded  as  a  sacred  thing  brought  her  on  her 
knees  at  last  to  the  Unseen  who  gave  it. 

Far  out  over  the  dark  waters  a  dim  glimmer  paled 
the  horizon-line.  Lifting  her  head  heavily  from  her 
arms,  white,  spent,  June  Ferriss  watched  the  mysterious 
passing  of  the  night.  There  was  no  glow  of  exaltation, 
no  baptismal  fervour  of  sudden-born  regeneration.  But 
it  came  to  her  what  it  meant  to  "become  as  a  little  child." 
God  was  not  a  stupendous  and  complex  problem  for 
science  to  explain.  He  was  not  to  be  "understood."  But 
when  the  hour  came  when  creed  and  philosophy  alike 
were  inadequate  and  the  soul  crumpled  to  its  knees,  then 
out  of  the  void  came  the  great  calm  of  an  unseen 
strength. 

Of  this  the  church  tried  to  teach,  but  at  the  last  the 
way  must  be  travelled  alone.  In  that  hour  there  can 
only  be  "one's  self  and  God." 

Love  had  led  her  to  where  her  strength  saw  the  end 
of  strength  and  weakness  cried  out  for  help.  And  over 
the  great  waters,  held  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand,  the 
Great  Compassion  that  had  waited  with  great  patience, 
answered  her.  This  was  God. 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  427 

Several  weeks  of  the  new  and  beautiful  idleness  passed 
uneventfully,  and  the  wonderful  breezes  and  the  wonder- 
nights  when  the  great  canopy  of  stars  seemed  so  close, 
smoothed  the  tiredness  from  her  brow  and  tinged  very 
gently  the  whiteness  of  her  face.  After  luncheon  one 
day  while  her  step-mother  frankly  slept  in  one  of  the 
veranda  hammocks,  June  slowly  drifted  in  a  canoe  to 
the  landing  for  the  mail. 

When  she  returned,  Mrs.  Jim  was  always  ready  to 
give  and  receive  "news  from  the  world."  Letters  and 
papers  were  the  mild  excitement  that  broke  the  pleasant 
monotony  agreeably.  And  one  day  the  doctor  announced 
a  long  letter  from  Mrs.  Robert  Keith. 

"They  have  gone  to  Ferncliff  Inn,  June.  And  Toots 
has  written  a  whole  village  chronicle.  I  suppose  you  are 
only  interested  in  the  mill  section,  though !" 

Mrs.  Ferriss  twisted  herself  luxuriously  in  the  ham- 
mock, helped  herself  to  a  chocolate  and  gave  herself 
up  in  appreciative  absorption  to  Mrs.  Keith's  long  and 
delightfully  gossipy  effusion. 

June  was  sitting  on  the  steps  with  her  paddle  lying 
across  her  lap.  Her  head  was  leaning  against  the  pillar, 
her  face  concealed  by  the  vines. 

She  listened  with  an  air  of  lazy  interest  to  the  frag- 
mentary bits  of  news  that  floated  to  her  over  the  ham- 
mock edge.  But  her  heart  was  struggling  in  slow, 
laboured  beats  that  seemed  to  suffocate  her,  and  that  deep- 
ened the  old  relentless  ache  that  was  never  absent — the 
unsleeping  hunger  of  heart  and  soul  for  the  one  voice, 
the  one  presence,  that  peopled  life  richly,  or  left  it 
desolated  by  its  absence. 

Name  and  incident  issued  mirthfully  or  musingly  from 
somewhere  in  the  depths  of  the  gay  scarlet  and  green 
network,  and  June  Ferriss  forced  herself  to  comment 


428  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

now  and  then  on  the  news,  though  every  sense  seemed 
prostrate  and  crying  for  him;  for  the  man  who  had 
quietly  entered  her  life  and  in  so  doing  had  severed  it 
into  the  only  two  periods  that  mattered — the  former  that 
had  not  know  him,  and  the  latter  of  which  he  was  a  part. 

After  a  while  her  hands  tightened  suddenly  on  the 
paddle  and  her  breath  drew  in  sharply. 

"Dr.  Orth  looks  very  different,"  Mrs.  Ferriss  read 
aloud.  "His  mission  has  given  him  a  newer  and  bigger 
grip  on  life.  Mrs.  Orth  contracted  the  suicidal  habit 
again  as  soon  as  he  returned,  and  that  sort  of  thing  is 
pretty  awful  as  a  steady  performance.  But  he  is  a 
brick — and  a  wonder,  that  man!  Bob  and  the  Vances 
have  arrived  and  I  must  powder  my  nose  for  dinner. 
Will  'reshume'  in  the  morning." 

Mrs.  Ferris  fluttered  the  sheets  of  paper  and  suddenly 
exclaimed  "Good  Lord!" 

Pulling  herself  upright,  her  feet  on  the  floor,  she  read 
in  a  queer,  dry  tone:  "The  close  of  my  letter  last  night 
was  uncanny.  My  dear,  that  unfortunate  creature  cried 
'Wolf  once  too  often.  She  took  the  stuff  during  the 
night,  not  knowing  that  they  had  sent  for  the  doctor  and 
that  he  was  in  the  hospital.  They  found  her  crouched  on 
the  floor  in  his  study,  in  her  nightgown  and  bathrobe. 
It  was  too  late  for  the  usual  ghastly  programme — pumps 
and  emetics — and  the  curtain  has  rung  down,  thank  God ! 
on  all  that  sordid  bathos.  Requiescat  in  pace!  and  praise 
the  Powers  for  laggard  mercy." 


CHAPTER  FIFTY-EIGHT 

AUTUMN,  golden  and  glorious,  turned  the  Island 
into  a  succession  of  ever  more  beautiful  pictures. 
For  June,  life  seemed  to  have  stopped.  She  obediently 
played  her  part  in  the  daily  round  of  importantly  unim- 
portant things,  but  thinking,  feeling,  seemed  suspended 
and  the  other  side  of  the  dual  woman  clung  to  its  old 
refuge,  the  breakwater,  where  the  surf  churned  in  its 
augustly  solemn  threnody  and  the  little  matters  of  life 
and  death  withdrew  before  its  majestic  significance. 

And  one  evening  when  the  cool  of  autumn  gave  excuse 
for  a  driftwood  blaze  in  the  fireplace,  she  slipped  away 
from  the  little  group  before  it.  Twisting  a  big  hooded 
cloak  around  her,  she  ran  fleetly  along  the  sands  to 
where  the  great  ledges  of  protecting  rock  reached  out 
and  thrust  back  the  long,  smooth  swells  that  rose  high 
and  broke  thunderously  over  them. 

There  the  desperate  hunger  could  reach  out  its  wings 
to  the  vast  mysteries,  and  to  its  pain  was  given  a  dignity 
that  quieted  the  hurt. 

Great  dark  argosies  of  cloud,  silver-tinged,  were  mov- 
ing in  stately  slowness  across  the  sky,  and  now  and 
then  the  moon  looked  serenely  through.  The  wind  had 
gone  down  with  the  sun  and  the  angry  protest  of  the 
baffled  waters  but  accentuated  the  night's  far-spreading 
calm. 

With  her  arm  and  clasped  hands  in  a  cleft  of  the  rock, 
she  looked  down  at  the  turmoil  boiling  at  her  feet — the 
protest  of  all  life  at  its  stone  barriers! 

So  had  hers  battled  and  fallen  back  upon  itself,  again 

429 


43O  The  Towers  of  Ilium 

and  again.  But  she  had  always  battled  on.  Was  it  much 
that  she  had  accomplished?  Was  it  worth  while?  It 
had  left  her  like  a  bruised  sea-bird  flattened  against  a 
crag. 

But,  ah,  the  crag  was  there!  The  still,  strong  soul 
toward  which  her  soul's  wings  had  beaten  wearily 
through  the  night  and  storm,  had  risen  at  last  from  the 
sea. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  shingle  behind  her.  Turn- 
ing, she  saw  her  father  and  Kate  walking  slowly  back 
toward  the  house,  a  big  Scotch  plaid  over  their  heads 
and  shoulders.  Then  she  looked  into  the  eyes  whose 
slow,  grave  smile  had  lighted  the  little  lamp  in  her  heart's 
holy  of  holies — that  had  given  to  her  seeking  a  religion 
— to  her  questioning  a  God. 

John  Orth  came  to  her  side  with  his  quietly  deliberate 
step.  Leaning  back  against  the  black  rocks,  the  moon- 
light adding  its  aura  of  silver  to  the  silvered  bands  of 
dark  hair  that  lay  like  a  nun's  coif  around  her  head,  her 
outstretched  arms  braced  against  the  rough  stone,  June 
waited  motionless. 

Very  gently  he  laid  his  wonderful,  flexible  surgeon- 
hands  on  each  side  of  her  face  and  looked  deep  into  her 
eyes.  Close  to  them  the  mighty  waves  reared  and  fell 
in  a  majestic  epithalamium,  the  sonorous,  splendid  mar- 
riage chant  of  the  waters.  The  great  company  of  the 
stars  wheeled  close. 

He  drew  her  to  him,,  breast,  mouth,  soul,  there  where 
the  great  wide  freedom  that  she  worshipped  lifted  a 
cathedral  not  builded  with  hands,  to  give  its  benedictus. 

"Boy!"  she  whispered  to  the  iron-locked  lips  grown 
tender,  the  terribly  patient  eyes  grown  richly  impatient 
as  passion  answered  to  the  Gloria  in  Excelsis  of  the  sea. 
"Boy! — my  beloved — ah,  my  beloved !" 


The  Towers  of  Ilium  431 

The  dying  wind  billowed  the  folds  of  her  Portia- 
cloak,  then  swept  it  around  them  like  a  royal  mantle. 
For  the  delayed  sweetness  of  it  his  lips  touched  linger- 
ingly  silvered  coif  and  eyes  in  which  her  soul  shone, 
then  close  and  warm  against  hers,  spoke  the  aching  hun- 
ger of  all  life — "I  love  you,  June  Ferriss — I  love  you — 
I  love  you " 

Of  the  depths,  the  heights! 


THE   END 


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